


Safe in the Dark (The King of Nightmares, the Queen of Shadows, and the Heirs to the Carter Legacy)

by LittleMissLiesmith



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Beta In Progress, Borrowed Nightmares, F/F, F/M, Gen, Gravity Falls AU, I have way too much lore for this, M/M, Other, Polyamory, This kind of started out as Gravity Falls and then unfortunate events added itself, Unfortunate Events AU, a miracle., and now it's its own thing, how is this a ducktales AU i only started watching ducktales last week!, this may actually get finished someday!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2018-11-05 05:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 32,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11006505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissLiesmith/pseuds/LittleMissLiesmith
Summary: With the death of their parents and sister, Wendy and Webber Carter move to a strange little town in Oregon to meet an uncle they've never known and his house full of wayward crazies that will now be taking care of them. But, of course, not all is as it appears. It never is.Heirs to the Carter Legacy blog.





	1. In which Mr. and Mrs. Carter are dead, and Abigail Carter is not.

**Author's Note:**

> In the process of being beta'd currently, but I am impatient. 
> 
> This story features borrowed nightmares from Delcat, but not for a while. Once they arrive, I will link to Del's appropriate tag.
> 
> The Tumblr of Tangential Relation can be found here: https://heirstothecarterlegacy.tumblr.com
> 
> Testimonials:
> 
> "fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK OH MY GOD" -DaisyDogOx
> 
> "THIS ISN'T OKAY." -GamerGirl54332

_ TRAGEDY STRIKES! _

_ BLY WOODS—Earlier this week, Jack and Flora Carter of Bly Wood and their daughter Abigail perished in a tragic car accident. Rescuers were able to save the other two children, but the trio were dead by the time effort could reach them. _

_ This is not the first time the Carter family has had an incident this troubling. Seven years ago, Mrs. Charlotte Carter of Clockworks, Oregon, the sister-in-law of the deceased, disappeared under mysterious circumstances along with a family friend. Theories of the two having an affair abounded, but faded out when not a trace of them was found. Incidentally, Charlotte’s widower, William Carter, is the only direct relative remaining to the two surviving children, and they will be going to live with him in Clockworks in  _ [continued p. C3]

-M-

The bus ride from Bly Wood to San Francisco was an hour. The bus ride from San Francisco to Portland was ten hours. The bus ride from Portland to Clockworks, Oregon was two hours. Wendy and Webber Carter sat in the back of the bus each time, held hands at the rest stops, and napped.

Well, Webber napped. Wendy stayed awake, eagle-eyed and silent, unwilling to let anything resembling harm come to her brother.

They’d spent two days with a social worker before everything had sorted and she’d put them on a bus to San Francisco with instructions on how to get to Clockworks. They spent thirteen silent hours together on buses, holding hands.

Abigail was dead.

Their parents were dead, too, but it was Abigail’s loss that was hitting Wendy the hardest. They’d been identical—Webber looked like them, of course, but Wendy and Abigail were exactly alike. There was never any question that the three of them would always be together—Abigail, scrappy and stalwart defender; Wendy, quiet and observant and intelligent; Webber, with good humor and kindness enough for them all.

Privately, Wendy thought the day had gone wrong. They all had to die or they all had to stay alive.

She didn’t say that, of course. And she was glad Webber was alive, but…

The thoughts chased each other around her head until their final bus came to a stop on Main Street in Clockworks. The buildings were old and anachronistic—turn of the twentieth century, Victorian, 1950s suburban houses—and no one was outside, walking the streets or sitting on porches, in the dreary rain and the fog that coated the town.

Well, one person seemed to be outside. A lone figure stood under the portico of the Clockworks Public Library, and as Wendy and Webber disembarked, he looked up.

Maxwell Carter, it turned out, was not what Wendy had expected. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, in all honesty; she could vaguely remember him visiting for Christmas when she was four. Her memories held a tall, thin man, accompanied by a dark-haired woman who smiled at anything and another man with fluffy hair Abigail had wanted to play with. The man waiting for them was tall, yes, and thin, but also gaunt to the point of skeletal, and rather than the wide smile Wendy had seen in the few photos of him, his lips were pressed into a hard line.

He wore a fur coat that reached his ankles. It was seventy degrees and September.

He stared at them as they came off the bus. “Wendy,” he said. “And Web—“

“Webber,” Webber interrupted. Wendy relaxed. Webber was an excellent judge of character, in her experience. If he trusted their uncle with talking—a rare occurrence since the accident—she would give him a chance.

Maxwell nodded. “Webber. Is that all you have?”

Wendy looked behind them, at the two rolling suitcases and the backpacks each of them wore. “Yes. Everything from the house was put in a trust, and our books and things are being mailed in.”

“Right. I think I got a letter about that.” He straightened. “I’m your uncle, of course. You can call me Uncle Maxwell, or just Maxwell if you prefer.” He held out one spidery hand. When neither of them took it, he faltered, some nerves evident under the calm mask he wore. “Er. My home is through the woods—it’s only a short walk. I imagine you’ve had enough of driving, and I do not own a car in any case.”

Wendy stared up at Maxwell, at the strange emaciated man who was supposed to be her uncle. “Webber likes spiders,” she said finally. “Do you kill spiders?”

“I try not to make a habit of it, though they do well to stay in nooks and crannies and not in my bed.”

Wendy looked to Webber. He seemed satisfied with the answer. Next question. “Will you make us go to school?”

They had tried school, once—the first day of the third grade. Abigail got suspended for beating up a kid who called Webber weird, Webber made a teacher faint by showing her the enormous wolf spider he had found in the boiler room and kept in his hair, and Wendy was sent home with a note from her teacher reading “Wendy brought a severed toe to school. P.S. I’m retiring.” Flora went back to homeschooling after that.

Maxwell looked thoughtful. “I suppose we have enough to homeschool you, if you wish. It won’t be a very conventional education, but it will do.”

Wendy allowed a smile. Maxwell was seeming okay. She wasn’t sure what she would have done if he’d turned out to be the bad sort, but she certainly wouldn’t have gone with him or let Webber anywhere near. The last question was the kicker, though, and a  _ good _ adult would at least humor her. “Can Abigail come?”

She wasn’t expecting what Maxwell actually did, which was to look directly at the flower in her hair. “Of course Abigail can come.”

Wendy thought that there was something more than strange going on here.

“Alright,” said Wendy. “Which way?”

-M-

The road out of town led through the woods, the trees surrounded by signs that read CYCLUM HOUSE CABARET and CYCLUM THIS WAY and  _ NIGHTMARE _ —PERFORMED EVERY EVENING.

“What’s Cyclum House?” Webber asked, his suitcase bumping over the rocky road.

“It’s where I live, and where you’ll live.” Maxwell stared straight ahead, seeming confident that the triplets would follow him. “There are others, too. You’ll meet them soon.”

They kept walking until, out of the trees, Cyclum House emerged. A mess of a place, additions hanging off of it, parts seeming almost curved or falling in but not quite. Two stories and what appeared to be a small tower, or possibly an attic; a sprawling garden full of overgrown bushes covered the front and spilled off to the side into the fog.

“Shall I give you a tour, or just the essentials?” Maxwell asked as they approached the porch.

“Essentials,” said Wendy. “We like exploring.”

Maxwell gave a small smile. “A girl after my own heart. The looks certainly don’t show our relation; at least we have some interests in common. Inside, now, go on.” He ushered them up the steps to the grand door and opened it.

They stepped into a fairly opulent anteroom with doors on each side wall and two sets of double doors in the wall opposite. Maxwell pointed to the doors on the left. “That is Cyclum Theatre. I perform nightly and change my routine every few months. We’re planning a new routine right now, so it might be a bit hectic; I advise not exploring in there as you are likely to come to some amount of harm.” He opened the doors to the right, revealing a long hallway with floor-to-ceiling windows on the right wall. “This way.”

Past the hallway was a room full of plush chairs and pretty, delicate tables, a grand staircase leading to the second floor landing, and a door in the left wall. There was a large statue of an angel in the center of the room. “Cyclum Theatre used to entertain guests,” Maxwell told the triplets. “This room mostly goes unused now.”

He pointed to a smaller door in the right wall. “Through there is the cloakroom. It leads to the gardens and is the only way into the kitchens—via the porch. A remnant from the days when the gardens were the servant’s chambers.”

“How long have you lived here?” Wendy asked.

“Longer than you’ve been alive.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Perceptive, aren’t you? The Carter family has owned this house since 1905.”

Wendy decided to just go ahead and take that answer. Maxwell was the sneaky sort. Good. So was she.

Maxwell had started for the steps when a loud holler filled the room. The trio turned towards the source of the noise and Wendy titled her head. The girl in the doorway was an  _ adult _ , certainly, but a very young adult. It was hard to tell what on her face was freckles and what was dirt, and in one grimy fist she clenched a plastic replica of Mjolnir.

She also didn’t seem to have a concept of  _ inside voice _ . Wendy cringed as she started shouting again, pulling Webber in closer to herself.

“ _ Hey! _ Mistah Maxwell!” Her accent was odd. Icelandic? Russian? Something cold and northern. “Who are these tiny children?!”

Maxwell gave a long-suffering sigh. “Indoor voices, Wigfrid. We’ve discussed this. These are Wendy and Webber, my niblings. We’ve discussed them, too.”

“ _ Really _ ? When?” Her voice was only slightly quieter but Maxwell said nothing.

“At dinner. On Sunday.”

“Oh. I do not listen to half of what you say.” Wigfrid darted over and peered at Wendy and Webber. Wendy drew Webber closer, pressing him against her side.

“Hello, children! I am Wigfrid. I live here!”

“That much is obvious,” said Wendy.

Wigfrid laughed uproariously. “She really is your niece, Mistah Maxwell! How about him, does he talk?”

Webber gave her a gap-toothed grin. “I’m Webber! I’m eleven years old and I love spiders a lot!”

Wigfrid looked genuinely impressed. “A true fearless warrior! I welcome you into our home and family, Webber and Wendy.” She looked at Maxwell. “Willow set the curtains on fire.”

Maxwell said a word Wendy wasn’t supposed to know. “Again? Did you put  _ out  _ the fire?”

“Yes. We need new curtains.”

“Make Willow pay for them. She needs to take responsibility for her actions.”

Wigfrid nodded and saluted with her plastic hammer. Her braids bounced as she sprinted back to the door, slamming it behind her.

Maxwell shrugged and led the triplets upstairs as if they hadn’t just been accosted by a crazy Viking. The landing had more grand double doors, and a regular door in the left wall. He opened the double doors—three more doors in the opposite wall, and an old elevator between the second and third.

“That door—“ farthest on the right—“is the dining room. We have family dinner and you can get your own breakfast and lunch from the kitchens if no one is making anything. Someone usually is.” Maxwell turned to leave and Wendy tugged at his coat.

“What’s the elevator for?”

Maxwell hesitated. “It goes to the basement. But it hasn’t worked in years.”

“Is there another way down?”

“No.” Maxwell’s voice was sharp. “You wouldn’t want to go there anyway. It’s old and dusty and very boring. Now come along.”

They went through the other landing door into a hallway with a staircase at the far end. Maxwell led them over. “The attic,” he said with a wave. “You’ll be staying up here.”

They went up. Wendy put her suitcase against the wall and looked around. For an attic it was pretty nice; a door at the top could lock and keep people out, old wood floors, a rug between the twin beds that sat under a window, a sloped roof. An old dresser with a mirror and a vase of flowers. A wardrobe. Two desks with small chairs and a lamp on the nightstand between the beds. One bed was done up in yellow and one in dark blue.

Webber threw his backpack at the blue bed and launched himself, faceplanting on it. “Mine!” he called out.

Wendy smiled and placed her own bag on the yellow bed. She pulled out a stuffed rabbit and placed it against the pillows, then took off her hairbow, stood on top of the bed, and carefully placed it in the center of the windowsill.

Maxwell stood at the top of the staircase, looking more than a little awkward. The coat no longer appeared intimidating, but hiding, like he didn’t want to be seen; he was too gangly for the small room. It humanized him somewhat. “Well! It’s late, and you’ve been travelling all day and my show is over. Get some rest. Tomorrow we’ll have house breakfast in the kitchens, and add the two of you to the chore schedule and sticker chart. None of the dangerous chores, of course—and you are to keep your room clean.” He cleared his throat. “I think that will be all.”

Maxwell disappeared down the stairs and Webber started unpacking.

-M-

Late at night, when Webber was asleep, Wendy pulled the flower hairbow off the windowsill and set it on the quilt. It hovered an inch or so above the cloth.

“Abigail?” she whispered. “Can you come tonight?”

She stared at the end of the bed and smiled after a moment. “What do you think of Maxwell?”

She reached out on the quilt and placed her hand flat. “Good. I thought so too. Go find things out once you’re rested up, okay? I have to sleep too.” A moment’s pause. “Night, Abigail.” She moved the hairbow to the nightstand and burrowed under the quilt. With the comforting light at the end of the bed, she quickly fell asleep.


	2. In which we meet Maxwell’s band of lost souls, the Wayward Crazies, and a show is prepared

The phrase “sleep like the dead” was not one that could ever have been applied to Wendy. Webber, however, had had it applied to  _ him  _ many, many times. The first morning at Cylcum House, he woke to sun streaming in the window and Wendy staring down at him.

He blinked up at his sister. “…Did you talk to Abigail last night?”

“Yes.” Wendy sat on the edge of his bed. “She thinks we should stay.”

“Could’ve asked me.” Webber wriggled out from under his covers and stretched. “ _ I _ like it here.”

“Didn’t have to ask. I already know that.” Wendy smiled. “Get dressed. We’re supposed to meet Maxwell for breakfast.”

Webber nodded and rolled off of the bed, headed for the wardrobe.

Once he was dressed, they set off. They didn’t have too much trouble finding the kitchen, as they didn’t stop to explore. The gardens were nice, at least. As they drew closer to the porch, the door was thrown open, revealing a woman with dark pigtails and frighteningly blank eyes.

She grinned at them. “It’s kiddos! Heya, kiddos!”

Wendy held on to Webber’s hand as they approached the porch. Webber waved at the woman with his free hand. “Hi!”

She stood aside. “C’mon in! Maxy’s making pancakes.”

They headed through the door. “Who’re you?” asked Webber.

“I’m Willow!” She bounced over to the table in the center of the kitchen, set for five. Maxwell stood at an old-fashioned stove, wearing a surprisingly frilly apron and flipping pancakes. At the table sat, presumably, another member of the household, an enormous man wearing three layers of flannel underneath of a leather jacket and sipping a mug of black coffee.

Webber wriggled out from Wendy’s grasp and plopped down in the seat next to him. “I’m Webber! I’m eleven and I like spiders and that’s my sister Wendy.”

“Allo, Webber.” The man’s voice was a low, comforting rumble, softened by a thick Canadian accent. “Woodie.”

 

“That’s your name?” Webber kicked his legs against the legs of the chair as Wendy took a seat next to him. “I like it.”

Maxwell turned and levered a small pile of pancakes onto each of the five plates. Willow brought over maple syrup and sat at Woodie’s other side, leaving Maxwell between the girls. As soon as he sat down, Webber grabbed the syrup and started drowning his pancakes in it as Wendy looked on in disgust.

“I’m afraid most of our number opted not to join us,” said Maxwell, neatly cutting his pancakes. “Wendy, Webber, meet Willow and Allen.”

“ _ Woodie _ ,” said Woodie through a mouthful of pancake.

“Willow and Woodie, who prefers to be known by his nickname only. Much like you, Webber.”

Webber nodded with enthusiasm.

Maxwell pointed over to a bulletin board. “Now, as I mentioned yesterday, here we have the chore schedule. You can see that the two of you have been added as a collective entry. Your assigned chore each week is marked with an X and changes on Sundays. This week, the two of you will be tidying the second floor main areas daily. I don’t much care when you do it as long as it gets done.”

Webber looked at the board, chewing his pancakes thoughtfully and reading the names.  _ Wix, Allen, Willow, Eleanora W., Wigfrid, Wes, Amadeus, Wendy & Webber _ . “Where’s your name?”

“I tend to the gardens and bring in money, I don’t do chores.” Maxwell gave a wry smile.

“The gardens are not very  _ tended _ ,” Wendy noted, taking a small sip of her orange juice and looking very innocent.

“I do my best.” Maxwell’s voice was tight.

That might have been the end of it and the start of a perfectly fine breakfast if Webber hadn’t peered closer at the board. “Hey!” he said finally. “Wen, look, it’s the lady from our Christmas pictures!”

Maxwell stood up so fast the table shook, Woodie grabbing his coffee cup protectively and Willow trying in vain to keep the syrup from falling and staring in dismay when it started pooling on the table. “I think I have some work to do to prepare for the new act. Willow, light nothing on fire. Allen, please don’t try to load the dishwasher again.” He swept out the door so quickly Webber almost got whiplash, leaving behind half-eaten pancakes and still wearing the apron.

The triplets stared as he left. “Oh, my,” said Wendy. “He’s certainly not a conversationalist.”

Willow reached over and patted her shoulder in what was probably meant to be a comforting manner, but given Wendy’s inclinations, was probably not at all helpful. “Eh. That picture’s been here long as I have but he never talks about it.”

“Who is she?” Webber asked. “And who’s  _ he _ ?” He pointed to another photo—Maxwell, the woman, and a man with a fluffy pompadour. The other mysterious stranger from the Christmas pictures.

Willow shrugged. “Dunno. Before my time. You could ask Wix, he’s been here longest, but he’s a  _ jerk _ .”

“…I’ll bite. Why?” asked Wendy.

“Hey, kid, don’t ask me. Some people like collecting buttons, some people like to start fires when they’re bored, some people are assholes. That’s just the human spectrum—if Wix  _ is _ actually human. Which is debatable.”

And so Webber learned a new word, and, with his triplet, set off to find the mysterious, probably-human Wix.

-M-

Most of the doors in the house were locked. “Bedrooms, probably,” said Wendy when Webber looked to her for explanation. They did find a large two-story library, and the first floor hallway, and finally, on the second floor, the second door in their hall, which had WX written on a piece of paper in large letters, and, in smaller letters, DO NOT DISTURB. SERIOUSLY.

Wendy knocked on the door. Webber heard a loud groan from inside. “ _ Carter _ ! I told you not to bother me! I’m very busy and this is very important!”

“We’re not Maxwell,” called Webber.

A moment’s silence and the door opened. Webber gasped.

“ _ Your arm is made of metal _ !” he shrieked in delight. Wendy tugged his hair.

“Webber, that’s rude. Can we come in?”

Presumably-Wix stared at them, expressionless. Well, he probably was looking at them. The aviator shades made it hard to tell. “…What for?”

“We had questions about Maxwell’s pictures and Willow said you might know.”

Wix shrugged. “Well, I don’t know much, but if you’re talking about the ones in the kitchen—yeah, I know who that is. Come on in, I suppose.” He stepped aside.

Wix’s room had chalkboard paint on the walls and equations and diagrams on them that made Webber dizzy. A large worktable took up most of the space in the room, with a bare cot and a dresser shoved into the nook by the only window. Dreary, really. There wasn’t even a fireplace and the house had four chimneys (that Webber had seen so far).

Wix continued to appraise them behind the glasses. “So what did you want to know?”

“The smiling lady and the man with the fluffy hair,” said Webber. “Who Maxwell won’t talk about, from the pictures in the kitchen. Who are they?”

“Never met ‘em, officially.” Wix collapsed, loose-limbed, into the chair at the desk and started rummaging in a drawer. “The man’s Higgsbury—Wilson Higgsbury or something ridiculous like that. He was my long-distance chess partner before I came here—I only stayed ‘cause of that, really. The old man felt….indebted, I guess.” He shrugged, pulling out a small sheath of papers and handing it to Wendy. “Been here seven years. I don’t know what happened to Higgsbury. But given the timing, I guess the lady was Maxwell’s wife—the one who went missing.”

Webber leaned over Wendy’s shoulder to look at the neatly filled-out mail chess papers, yellowing at the edges with age and with little notes all over them. Each signed with W. P. H. The triplets exchanged a glance. “So why are you here?” Wendy asked.

“Some people don’t understand genius.” Wix scoffed. When the triplets just stared blankly, he huffed. “I was studying at MIT when I was chess partners with Higgsbury. They kicked me out for my theories on alternate reality. Decided to take a road trip and see where my chess partner had got off to. Never did learn but I stayed here anyway—family house, don’t halfta pay rent. Now, can you two scram? I’ve got calculations that need doing.”

“Well, what should we do?” asked Webber. “We’re bored.”

“I don’t know.” Wix looked frustrated, snatching the papers back. “This house is a hundred and fifty years old—go look around. Find things you’re not supposed to. I’ll give you each twenty bucks if you find a way to the basement and leave me alone, how’s that?” He grabbed a piece of chalk off of the ground and started adding to the equations on one wall.

Wendy looked at Webber and Webber looked at Wendy. He could tell she was thinking the same thing as him—something along the lines of  _ getting paid for something we planned to do anyway sounds pretty good _ .

“Didn’t you hear me?” Wix snapped. “Scram!”

They scrammed.

-M-

The doors were labeled, each one differently. One had WOODIE carved directly into it. On the other side of Wix was WOLFGANG & WES, BEWARE THE NARWHAL. In the library was one with a fancy nameplate reading ELEANORA WICKERBOTTOM. Downstairs was WILLOW AND Wigfrid on construction paper and an unmarked door.

“Gotta be Max,” said Webber at the unmarked door. “We can go look in the gardens now.”

Wendy had a gleam in her eye. Webber knew that gleam. It heralded everything that was fun in life, and nothing good for anyone else around them.

The gardens had an old merry-go-round and a fountain by the kitchen porches. Wendy and Webber amused themselves for a while playing with the merry-go-round, then they explored the rest of the gardens.

Wendy picked roses. Roses seemed to be the focus, and most were in their fall blooming season. Webber could see plenty of variety—red, yellow, pink, white, lavender, shades of each and more, wilting and flowering and sprawling across the gardens.

“He does tend to them, then,” said Wendy, examining one of the plans. The knees of her stockings were muddy and torn. “Doesn’t prune them, but tends. They have fertilizer in the soil and they’ve been cared for.”

“Oh.” Webber picked at a large yellow garden spider that was playing in a rosebush. It crawled onto his hand, nestling between his thumb and forefinger. He stroked it lightly. “ _ She _ had a rose, didn’t she?”

“The woman in the pictures. Yes.” Wendy tucked a rose into her hair. “There is another.”

Webber looked up. “Where?”

They went back inside through the mudroom. Wendy opened the door to the antechamber and pointed. “There.”

Between the two sets of double doors, theatre and hallway, was a vintage-styled poster of Maxwell— _ THE GREAT MAXWELL IN NIGHTMARE. _ He wore a pinstripe suit and his fur coat, a hand outstretched towards the viewer and leaning in slightly. And a red rose was pinned to his lapel. Wendy turned to Webber.

“Want to see the show?”


	3. In which a show is hosted, and so is dinner

 

The Cyclum House had people start arriving at five-thirty, milling in the anteroom and purchasing tickets, taking their seats in the theatre. Willow and another housemate, a pale young man who didn’t speak (that Wendy had seen) and wore ruby-red lipstick, ushered and sold the tickets. When it was almost six, Wendy and Webber slipped inside and sat at the back.

At six exactly, the lights dimmed. Wendy took one last look around—the theatre was nice, and certainly interesting, but she couldn’t see much of it—and straightened in her seat. Center stage, in front of velvety black curtains under a spotlight, stood Willow in an elegant dress.

“My friends,” she said. Her voice carried over the crowd, smooth and with a strange timbre to it, like an old movie star. “My friends…welcome. Be it your first time here or your fortieth, we welcome you, as always, to Cyclum House.

“Our performance tonight has been a crowd favorite since its first performance nearly ten years ago. Its revival has been a celebration, a precursor to our greatest show yet,  _ Final Act. _ The stories told in this performance set are all-new, but the wonder and magic of the original series are still intact.

“So, my love…” Her voice lowered, the spotlight dimmed. “My love, my dear, dear friend….”

The light went out. Willow’s voice echoed through the theatre.

“Welcome to  _ Nightmare _ .”

In the darkness, the curtain dissolved, shadows melting into the darkness. The spotlight relit, and underneath it stood Maxwell in a pinstripe suit, a red rose on his lapel.

Music began, soft piano. Fairy lights twinkled around the theatre, knitted into nets and turning the ceiling into a starry night sky. A small fire roared to life in front of Maxwell when he snapped his fingers, the spotlight dimming, and he began to speak.

“What’s a story? Just words. Yet in the night, when only the dying fire keeps the darkness from surrounding you, swallowing you—any story can be fearsome.

“Let me tell you a story.”

Above him, on the back wall, shadows flickered to life. A gnarled tree, with a flower underneath it. “Liminal spaces. They exist between reality and the realm of magic, tying the worlds together. Some call them leylines. The specifics are not important—what is important is that, in liminal space, anything can happen.”

The tree and flower dissolved, fragments of shadow moving to form new figures. “Mm, what story shall we weave tonight…?” They solidified, formed a girlish figure with pigtails. “Ah. A story of fire and regret. A good choice.”

To the astonishment of the triplets, the shadow began moving. Not flickering, moving as fluidly as the silhouette ballet their parents had once taken them to. She was walking, shadows springing up around her, moving and disappearing. “A girl who has lost her father, her only remaining family member, and graduated college in a recent span of time. She is going to her new job as a researcher at a university. She’s sure that this will be everything she wanted.”

The shadows formed a desk, and the girl sat down, a book materializing in her hands. Another figure walked onto the “stage”. “But the girl found that this was not what she had expected. It was dull—there was no need for new thought, no want for it; she was berated by her peers for trying to make a change.

“With the one love of her life failed, she turned to the other.”

The audience shrieked in delight as the shadow peeled itself off the wall, a figure of liquid darkness. The shrieks turned to a startled fear as she held up a small black box and fire spilled out.

“That can’t be real fire,” Webber whispered to Wendy. “It can’t!” His sister said nothing, staring at the stage as if it would reveal all the secrets of the universe—and perhaps it would. If a small universe.

Maxwell carried on, unheeding of the audience as the shadows and fire danced around him, whirling patterns of beauty and terror.

“Fire,” he announced, spreading his hands. “And she burnt every bridge she could. She burnt the library where her love of knowledge died and she ran.”

The shadows grew more frenetic, the girl running from darkness that shifted from human to monster, entwined in flames.

“No one intends to come to a leyline.” Maxwell’s eyes were closed, his hands directing the shadows with practiced ease, consumed by the story. “They trip and fall into them, and if they accept hospitality from what lives within, they entrap themselves. The girl ran, heedless of direction, and fell straight into the clutches of a monster.”

The shadows reformed; the girl, flames wrapping and licking around her, stood before a hulking beast. The audience continued to express their delight in the show. Webber gripped Wendy’s hand tightly and she squeezed.

“She thought it could be no worse than that which chased her for her love of fire, so she bargained. For his appearance, the monster did not ask for much. She thought, if that was the worst lurking in the dark, it was not a terrible bargain.”

The shadows rose and dove, dissolving into the ground. With their swirls of flame gone, the spotlight dimmed and faded out, leaving the campfire and the stars.

Maxwell’s eyes remained closed, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Perhaps she was right. In liminal space she was protected—she didn’t fear from those who hated her one love. But she made one mistake.”

His eyes opened, and slowly, Maxwell stared up at the net of stars.

 

“There are worse things that hide in the dark.”

 

A groaning, shifting sound came from the ceiling. Slowly, the audience looked up.

A something made of shadows, a giant moving spiderlike creature, had blotted out the stars.

The fire went out and the theatre was plunged into darkness. Someone in the audience screamed.

The spotlight came back on. Maxwell was gone, the velvet curtains reformed. Willow stood center stage, smiling genially.

“We hope you enjoyed this act of  _ Nightmare _ . Tonight’s story was  _ Firechild _ . If you wish to see the other performances of  _ Circus, Literary, Marriage, Theatrical _ , or  _ Clockwork Heart _ , sorry—we don’t have a schedule. But if you wish to see the final  _ Nightmare _ show,  _ Final Act _ , it will be performed one night only, Halloween night. We hope to see you then.”

The spotlight blinked out and the house lights went up. The audience began to mill about. Wendy and Webber quietly exited before anyone else could.

-M-

Wendy hid them under a small table in the anteroom to eavesdrop. Well, she eavesdropped. Webber found a daddy longlegs and there was no taking his attention away from  _ that _ .

While her brother let his new friend crawl up his arm, Wendy crouched close to the cloth that covered them, straining to hear the conversations of the audience members as they exited. A triumphant smile spread across her face when two pairs of shoes stopped right next to the table.

A woman’s voice floated down to her. “I know Mary said the show had gotten good again, but I admit I wasn’t expecting  _ that _ ! I remember seeing the shadow shows when I was still a teenager. I thought they weren’t done anymore.”

“This is the first time in a while,” came a man’s voice. “Preparing for the big event.”

“One night only…place will be packed. Think we should go?”

“Mm-hm.” Silence, for a moment. “How do you suppose they do it?”

“Hm? Oh. Tricks of the light, I suppose—smoke and mirrors. But you know, when I went with Jacob—that was junior year, so it would have been ten years ago, 2005-ish—he asked the assistant, because he wanted to be a magician himself at the time, and…Oh, I think it must have been scripted, to add to the mystique and all, but she said she didn’t know  _ how _ he did it.”

“Suppose so. Look, Anya’s back, we can go now.” The feet wandered away.

Wendy caught snippets of a few other conversations—delight at the show, a few scared children, a woman who declared that she swore that she had a nightmare just like the show—but no one else stopped at the table until the place had cleared out. There were no signs of human life in the room for a few moments, just ragtime music playing from a phonograph in the corner. Wendy felt a small tugging at her sleeve after staring at the rose tablecloth, unblinking, for some time.

She turned to her triplet. “Mm?”

“How  _ do _ you think he does it?” asked Webber. The longlegs had relocated to his shoulder and he’d somehow procured a jumping spider that was hopping between his fingers.

“I don’t know.” Wendy stared at the wood floor, deep in contemplation. “I wonder what else he can do?”

Webber squinted at her. “You’re thinking ‘bout Abigail.”

“I’m thinking about Abigail,” Wendy conceded. “If—“

The tablecloth was yanked up and Willow peered at them.

“ _ There _ you are. Come on, dinner’s ready!”

-M-

The table was set for twelve, but as far as Wendy could tell, even with Maxwell (who hadn’t arrived yet), there were only ten. She counted—Willow, Wigfrid, Wix, Woodie, the lipsticked man who worked with Willow, a muscular bald man with a handlebar mustache who held hands with Willow’s friend under the table, and an older woman who was reading a copy of  _ A Midsummer Night’s Dream _ and adjusting her spectacles. And, of course, Wendy and Webber.

“Are we missing anyone?” she asked Willow, pointing at the empty places.

Willow looked over and winced. “No. Max never lets anyone sit there. Wigfrid tried when she got here and he went  _ off _ .”

“It was not very sporting,” grumbled Wigfrid from Willow’s other side, tearing into her chicken with vigor. Her couscous and asparagus remained untouched.

“So who is everyone else?” Webber asked.

Willow spread her hands. “Gang? If you haven’t met the kiddos, introduce!”

The older woman cleared her throat, setting down her book. “Eleanora Wickerbottom. A pleasure, children.”

The man with the mustache grinned at them and said, with a heavy Russian accent, “Amadeus Wolfgang. And this is Wes.” He patted his companion on the shoulder and Wes waved. “You know how to speak the hands?”

“Sign language,” Willow murmured to Wendy. “Know it?”

Wendy shook her head. Wolfgang leaned back and studied the two, determination in his eyes. “Then when I teach you to run and climb, I will also teach you to speak the hands! It is decided!”

Something bumped into Wendy’s hand—a folded slip of paper. She unfolded and read the neat cursive.  _ I can read lips. Don’t worry if you don’t pick it up right away _ . She glanced back up; across the table, Wes smiled at her.

“Can you talk?” Wendy asked. Wes nodded to Willow, who answered.

“He  _ can _ . He doesn’t  _ like _ to. He thinks he sounds weird.”

Wes’s hands moved frantically. Wolfgang translated. “He says he does sound weird. This is ridiculous, but it is what he say.” Wes swatted his arm and signed at him. “No. I shall _ not _ keep out my thoughts when they are  _ correct _ .”

Webber laughed, letting the daddy longlegs onto his plate and hand-feeding the jumping spider tiny specks of meat. “Where’s Uncle Max?”

“Right here,” came a voice from the doorway. The triplet’s heads turned in unison to the sight of Maxwell in the door, suit jacket off, leaving him in dark pinstripe trousers and a pale lavender button-up. He strode in and took his seat at the head of the table, between the two empty place settings. Wendy noted that each of the three head seats had a glass of deep red wine, and none of the other adults did.

Dinner went fairly smoothly. Wendy was taught some easy signs by Wolfgang and Wes, as well as her name—a little combination of the letter W and the sign for “doll”—and Webber’s—“spider”, but signed smaller than the norm. Webber played with his new acquisitions and the others engaged in conversation.

Except for Maxwell. He drank his wine and ate and said nothing. When everyone was nearly finished, he stood and left.

“The show takes a lot outta him,” said Willow, resting her chin in her hands. “Funny, it never used to. He’d be talking with us and whatever afterward, no big deal. Not for this one.” Her voice dropped. “Might be actual magic. It sounds silly, I know, but…that’s what I think. There’s something different this time.”

-M-

Wendy placed Abigail back on the window after telling her about the day and stared at the ceiling. Within a day, Webber had already managed to get some of his friends spinning webs around his bed. Wendy and Abigail had their own bedroom at home just because of his ability to attract the leggy bugs.

She pulled the quilt up to her chin and thought about Cyclum House. The pictures in the kitchen, the cold man on the second floor, the rose garden, the one who owned the place and was supposed to be their uncle—who did not look like the man in their Christmas pictures and who had lost family too.

And of shadows, and of fire.

Wendy’s dreams would have been nightmares to anyone else. To her, the tales her mind told of danger and shadows were comfort. And Abigail sat in the periphery, quiet, waiting for her to bring her back.


	4. In which Cyclum House does the shopping, and Wendy searches for answers.

 

Nine AM on a Saturday morning and chaos was reigning in the kitchens. Maxwell sat on the counter, legs prim and crossed as he wrote on a steno pad in neat letters. Wickerbottom and Wes were in front of the fridge, Wes sitting on the floor and Wickerbottom standing over him. Wendy and Webber stood in the porch door and stared. “What,” Wendy finally asked, “Is going on here?”

“We’re going shopping!” Wigfrid shouted from where she sat on top of the fridge. “Shopping for anything! But mainly for food.”

“We’re all off work,” Willow added. “Except for Wix, he doesn’t work. But he doesn’t go shopping either.”

“Yogurt,” said Wickerbottom, her head still in the fridge. “Plain _and_ vanilla. Orange juice. Milk. At least a few cartons of each.”

“I know how _much_ we get, Eleanora,” Maxwell huffed. “Just the items, please.”

His pen scritched out messy letters on the steno pad.

“Fine. Butter, soy sauce. Mm…cooking wine. Wes?”

Wes signed at Wolfgang, who began repeating it for the benefit of Maxwell and his singular focus on the steno pad. “Celery, tomatoes, mushrooms, spinach, lettuce.”

“We’re very low,” Maxwell muttered, hand flying across the steno pad.

“Getting ready for kiddos,” Willow chirped, hopping up on the counter to peer over his shoulder.

“Indeed. Eleanora?”

Wendy and Webber scootched through the chaos and managed to find the ends of a bread loaf, a scrap of butter, and a mostly-unmolested jar of jam. Wendy made them toast. “Are we coming?”

“Yes,” said Wickerbottom sharply. “We’re not leaving two children alone in the house with _Wix_. Maxwell, do we need mayonnaise?”

“How much do we have?”

Wickerbottom examined it. “Half a jar.”

“That should be fine. What else?”

The inhabitants of the house slowly inspected everything in the kitchen—fridge, pantry, spice cabinet—and Maxwell filled several pages of his steno pad with a list. It took almost an hour, and when they were done, Maxwell hopped off of the counter and grabbed his coat. “Wolfgang, Allen, you two are on car duty. Allen, you’re driving. Please don’t go inside before the rest of us arrive or we’ll never find you. Children, go put on your shoes.”

The walk into town was surprisingly short, the thickness of the woods around Cyclum House obscuring how long the road actually was. No one really batted an eye as the seven of them trooped into town, either—not Maxwell’s coat, or Wigfrid’s period-accurate Viking armor, or Wickerbottom, who hadn’t looked up from an H.P. Lovecraft anthology. They didn’t even spare a glance to the preteens he had acquired.

“I pity any children you may kidnap,” Wendy told Maxwell. “No one will ever notice that they are not yours.”

Maxwell rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure someone would.”

Wendy doubted that, but she carried on anyway. Any theoretical kidnapped children would have to fend for themselves.

They met up with Woodie and Wolfgang at the grocer’s, a small, local affair that boasted local produce and “Wonder Chicken” in the slightly faded window signs. Maxwell tore off some of the list pages when they gathered in the vestibule and handed them out. “Wolfgang, Woodie, Wes, you three are together. Wickerbottom, Willow, Wigfrid, you’re together. Niblings, with me. I know we’re going to all end up back together at some point but just in case we don’t, when you’re done, wait _out of the way_ by the registers. Over there, for instance.” He indicated. “And please, please try not to burn anything down, blow anything up, or knock anything over. At least not anything important.”

“He said please,” Willow deadpanned. “It must be important.”

“I’m referring to you, Willow. Don’t get smart with me. Now, let’s try to be civil here, shall we?”

-M-

Shopping was an _adventure_.

With their parents, Wendy and Webber had done ordinary shopping. They got a reasonable amount of food, and if they all behaved they got cookies that looked like crocodiles.

With Maxwell, shopping was _very_ different. He pushed the cart and called out what they needed and how much of it, and Wendy and Webber would grab it and put it in the cart. The list was in no particular order, so they were backtracking all over the store. Wendy found Wigfrid, Willow, and Wickerbottom in the soup aisle arguing about coupons and had a handful shoved at her with strict instructions to _buy these instead_. Maxwell ignored this and continued buying what he wanted, sometimes things which weren’t even on the list in the first place, as they collected and lost members of the group, splitting up and reforming new groups.

Here were the things that were on ordinary shopping lists: Bread. Milk. Eggs. Chicken breasts. So on.

Here was what was on Maxwell’s shopping list: bizarre fruits, five kinds of beans, fourteen ingredients for the thing he was hungry for when they were making the list—namely, lamb-and-raisin empanadas—and a half pound of strawberry sour belts that he insisted no one else could touch.

Here was what was on Wendy’s shopping list, not technically a shopping list: Find a way to ditch the rest of the group to go explore the town, and hope they don’t notice before she gets back.

“Pomagranates—three of them. Each of you pick a kind of apples that isn’t red delicious and get those too. Two, no, three bunches of bananas…”

“Maxwell, we do not need three kinds of olives. Put those back. I _always_ know when you’re trying this, but we don’t have that kind of money and you can’t do it now either.”

“Wes, we get it, the baguettes here are terrible, we live in Oregon _just take the damn bread._ ”

“That is too much meat, Wigfrid. You’re going to get scurvy. At least eat an orange at some point.”

“Woodie, put down the syrup and step away. _Willow put down the matches._ ”

“You two are the least childlike here, honestly,” Wickerbottom said under her breath to the triplets. Webber giggled and Wendy preened; then Wickerbottom had to go drag Maxwell away from his fierce argument with another customer over the last jar of capers. 

Wickerbottom gave the two of them a smaller shopping cart and part of the list with strict instructions not to deviate. Webber pushed the cart and Wendy stacked items and they stopped in the bakery and picked out cookies, shaped like a spider and a ghost.

The Cyclum House residents (somehow) managed to regroup at the register, none the worse for wear (though Woodie looked as if he had been hit with something heavy, and Willow was twitching slightly). The cashier looked more than fed up when they lined the three carts into the lane and started unloading things. Wendy and Webber scampered underfoot and retrieved fallen items.

When nearly a thousand dollars of groceries were paid for, the group loaded everything into the car for Woodie and Wolfgang to take home, at which point Maxwell turned to the rest.

“I,” he announced, “intend to go to the library. The rest of you, do as you please, but niblings with me.”

Wendy smiled to herself. The library. Perfect.

-M-

Clockworks Public Library wasn’t a large place. Maxwell left the triplets in the children’s section with instructions not to leave the building, then disappeared through a small door behind the circulation desk.

Webber selected a children’s encyclopedia on spiders of the world and quickly absorbed himself in it. Wendy headed for the information desk, the top of her head scarcely visible to the woman sitting there.

The young librarian beamed at her, manicured nails drumming on the desktop. “What can I get you today, sweetie?”

“Do you have any books on the occult?” Wendy asked.

The librarian blinked, then scooted back a little. “…No. I don’t believe we do.”

“How about history? _Local_ history.”

Wendy’s new associate relaxed. “Now, that I can help you with! Come along.”

She led Wendy to one of the nonfiction shelves. “We have copies of journals, almanacs, a book or two written about the town….”

Wendy studied the shelf, schooling her face into careful blankness. “I was thinking more like newspapers. Have you got those?”

“We do! They’re on microfiche, though, I’m afraid. We’ve been meaning to scan them in. Do you have a specific time period?”

“It’d be after Christmas of 2006. But not long after. So…January or February, 2007.”

The librarian pulled a chair up to a nook with the enormous old microfiche reader. “I think I know exactly what you’re looking for. The Carter disappearances, right?”

“Exactly.” Wendy leaned over her shoulder as she selected a microfiche from a large box.

“Ah, here we are. It was March of 2007, not February.” She placed it into the reader and magnified the front page. The headline read LOCAL SWEETHEART MISSING.

“Take as long as you like,” said the librarian, standing up. “The next few issues ran articles too, if you don’t find what you’re looking for.”

 Wendy gave a nod of thanks, slid into the chair, and began reading.

-M-

_LOCAL SWEETHEART MISSING—THEATRE DARLING CHARLIE CARTER AND CLOSE FRIEND WILSON HIGGSBURY GO MISSING!_

_CLOCKWORKS, OR.—What was to be the celebrated final performance of acclaimed Cyclum Theatre show “Nightmare” turned to tragedy when the assistant and wife of famed magician Maxwell Carter disappeared shortly following the show. While searching for her it was found that her closest friend—also very close to Carter himself—had gone missing as well. After a week’s investigation, the police have concluded that there is no evidence pointing to whether the two voluntarily ran away or were abducted._

_Cyclum Theatre, which should by now be beginning anticipated new show “San Francisco 1906”, has been closed until further noticed; Mr. Carter cannot be reached for comment as to what he knows about the disappearance of his wife and friend or the return of his performance._

_Charlotte “Charlie” Carter and Wilson Percival Higgsbury have been officially declared missing persons in the absence of signs of death. If you know anything regarding this event, please call the sheriff’s office._

-M-

Wendy read every article she could find, but none had any clue as to what might have happened to the Carters. One paper speculated that the two were secret lovers, who had run off to be together; another proposed that they had been abducted for ransom, and Maxwell would soon receive a letter from the kidnappers. No letter ever arrived and Maxwell assured everyone there was no affair; his ease of being and cool demeanor did not seem like a man in denial, but rather one entirely sure of himself. After some days, the constant coverage stopped; Wendy gave up after two weeks of newspapers turned up nothing more on Charlie Carter or Wilson Higgsbury.

She put the microfiche back and headed for the local history shelf to browse. Journals of settlers from the 1800s, a book on town history, and a few on the region, and—Wendy perked up—a thin volume of local urban legends. 

She slipped it off the shelf and returned to her brother. Maxwell re-entered the library thirty minutes later; Wendy disguised the books in a stack of volumes about a girl who solved mysteries. Webber got three books on spiders. Maxwell didn’t even pay attention to the books that were being checked out, and it was easy for Wendy to slip the local legend compilation into the pocket of her windbreaker.

Maxwell took them straight home after that, remaining quiet—as he seemed to, from Wendy’s perspective. She held her brother’s hand with one of hers, and the other held shut her windbreaker with the book inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alligator cookies: https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4044/4316811204_8826010011_z.jpg?zz=1
> 
> I used to get them as a kid.


	5. In which Wendy creates monstrosities of the darkest magicks, and Webber visits the cellar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're moving now, folks! Plot time!!!

Webber had explored the house and was working on exploring the gardens and the extensive grounds the day it rained.  
  
He went to talk to his sister. Wendy was in their room, reading from one of the books she’d become obsessed with. She kept finding them around the house and in the private library. “Wendy,” he said, “I’m bored.”  
  
“So do your lesson.”  
  
“Did you do yours?”  
  
“Of course.” Wendy bit her lower lip and underlined something in the book she was reading. “Do you want help with yours?”  
  
“No. Wanna play?”  
“Not today. I can help with your lesson.”  
  
“I don’t want to do that.” He heard Wendy sigh as he slipped down the stairs.  
  
He skipped Wickerbottom—she’d make him do the lesson—and knocked on Wes and Wolfgang’s door. When Wes opened it, he smiled and clumsily signed the words he could as he spoke. “Hi, Mister Wes. You look nice today.”  
Wes clapped a hand to his mouth, covering the purple lipstick he wore, and widened his eyes in dramatic shock. After a moment he dropped his hand, gave Webber a wide grin, and ushered him in, knocking on the wall to capture Wolfgang’s attention.  
  
The burly Russian looked up from the book he was reading. As far as Webber could tell, it was a French-language edition of _Les Miserables_. “Ya? Oh! Is spider nephew! What you want?”  
  
“I’m bored,” said Webber. “Have you got anything for me to do?”  
  
“No. Am reading with Wes. Why you no play outside?”  
  
“It’s raining.”  
  
Wolfgang leaned over and yanked aside the curtain on the window by his bed. “Ah…ya. I see this. Go play outside.”’  
  
“My rainboots aren’t here yet. They got lost in the mail. What do I do?”  
  
Wes signed something at Wolfgang that Webber couldn’t understand. Wolfgang shrugged. “Wes says to play inside.”  
  
“Wendy’s busy. And I’ve seen everything inside.”  
Wes and Wolfgang looked at each other and shrugged in unison. “Go ask another,” said Wolfgang, looking back at his book.  
  
Webber huffed and left.  
  
He stopped outside the next door over and hesitated. From experience, Wix would probably have something _really_ interesting to do, but it would also probably be dangerous or illegal. Boredom and self-preservation held a brief battle in his head; boredom won and Webber knocked on the door.  
  
“ _Who is it_?” came the annoyed voice of Wix.  
  
“Webber! I have a question!”  
  
He heard a frusterated huff and a stomping before Wix threw open the door and (probably) glared down at him. “What, kid?”  
  
“What can I do to not be bored?”  
The man looked supremely annoyed at having been bothered. “I don’t know. Have you found a way to the basement yet? Twenty dollars if you do, remember?”  
  
Webber brightened. He _did_ remember. “Got it! Can I borrow your toolbox?”  
  
Five minutes later, Webber stood outside the brass elevator with Wix’s toolbox, studying it. It _looked_ fine. A little dusty, made of brass. But the buttons didn’t work.  
  
Webber spent a while inspecting it. Finally, he unscrewed a panel and grinned in delight. Something promising. A keyhole.  
  
Uncle Max had said the elevator wasn’t working.  
  
Webber sat back on his heels and thought. The elevator was not broken and there was a keyhole; so there was a key. So Max had lied. He wouldn’t lie, except that Wendy had said he was like her, and Wendy lied. Wendy also hid things. It was an unfortunate habit of hers—they’d find shiny things, her mother’s jewelry, missing buttons and such around her room, like a magpie.  
  
There was a key to the elevator and Wix clearly thought they could get down there. And Wix seemed to like to mess with Uncle Max.  
  
Uncle Max was out of town for the day. Webber made a decision.  
  
He slunk downstairs, quietly humming to himself. It was kind of like the Mission Impossible theme, but also kind of bouncy. It was his own theme music. He’d come up with it himself.  
  
The door to Maxwell’s room was locked, but that part wasn’t hard—he dragged a chair from one of the little hall tables over and stood on top of it, searching with the tips of his fingers at the top of the doorframe until he grinned in satisfaction and pulled off the old fashioned brass key. He pushed the chair back into place and unlocked the door.  
  
Maxwell’s room was large and cold, and most of the space was taken up by the largest bed Webber had ever seen. It was covered in pillows and down comforters and blankets, all piled into a nest-like heap, and had a canopy with heavy curtains. There was a fireplace, and a small desk with a thick unlabeled book on it. Webber beelined for the desk.  
  
The key was not in any of the drawers. He thought for a moment and looked over at the fireplace. It wasn’t in any of the little decorations, or under the photographs, but as he was searching he found a loose brick and grinned, pulling it out. Behind the brick was a hollow in the wall with a key in it.  
  
Webber grabbed it. It was a large, old key, made of brass. More than that, it looked as if it would fit perfectly into the elevator keyhole.  
  
He wriggled the brick back into place and shoved the key into the pocket of his coveralls. Then he ran out of the bedroom, dashing up the stairs and back into the library lobby.  
  
He paused in front of the elevator.  
  
Max didn’t want them to know there was a way to the basement. Wix did know—or suspected—and wanted them to find it.  
  
He put the key in the lock and twisted.  
  
There was a soft grinding noise, a bit of dust shaking off the elevator grille. Slowly, an old, open elevator rose, the grille sliding open to reveal the dark box.  
Webber looked at the key, grabbed it, and stepped inside. There were only two buttons—L and C. L was lit up.  
  
Webber hit C and watched the gate close. It occurred to him suddenly that he should have brought Wendy.  
  
-M-  
  
Webber was acting _weird_.  
  
He usually acted kind of strange, but this wasn’t normal Webber-strange. He rushed through dinner (steak and potatoes, which he usually loved) and insisted that he wanted to read.  
  
Webber did not _read_. Something was decidedly weird about this.  
  
She played Yahtzee with Wickerbottom and Willow in the library. She had nighttime tea. She went to bed.  
  
She woke up to a tap on her shoulder in a dark room with Webber standing over her, his wolf spider on his shoulder.  
  
“What?” she muttered sleepily.  
  
“Wendy. Come with me.”  
  
She got up. Webber still wore his coveralls but didn’t let her change out of her nightgown, dragging her down the attic stairs and into the entertaining room, across to the library lobby. He stood in front of the elevator.  
  
Wendy blinked, her brain taking a moment to catch up. “…It works.”  
  
“It works.” Webber pressed the button and Wendy watched in astonishment as the elevator rumbled up.  
  
“What’s it like down there?”  
  
“See for yourself.” Webber tugged Wendy into the lift.  
  
Slowly, they descended into the darkness.  
  
Wendy’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light, clutching the hairbow in her pocket. “…What is this place?”  
  
The basement was an enormous, gutted theatre that, if it was in good condition, would have been identical to Cyclum. On the stage sat a desk, bookshelves full of dusty tomes in the back wall. Spiders skittered in the dust, one clear path down to the center.  
  
The triplets made their way to the stage and clambered on. Wendy went to look at the books while Webber inspected the desk. They were very old, bound in leather and cloth; those she opened were written in Latin, French, Sanskrit, Arabic.  
  
“Wendy,” Webber called, voice echoing in the cavernous room. “Look.”  
  
She set down the Cantonese book she was inspecting—could Maxwell really read all those languages?—and peered over Webber’s shoulder. The book he had open had Latin, English, a language Wendy didn’t recognize, and some disturbing diagrams. Little red bookmarks hung out of many of the pages.  
  
Webber flipped through slowly. Wendy grabbed his hand at the sight of a phrase accompanying a faint sketch of a girl. “Webber, _look_.”  
  
Webber did. “’To bring to new life, esp. in family or closeness….mind-melds and morphs.’ So?”  
  
“Webber.” Wendy huffed. “ _Abigail_.”  
  
“ _Oh_!”  
  
-M-  
  
Ten minutes later Wendy had retrieved chalk, candles, and a match from one of the desk drawers and had drawn the circle diagrammed in the book. She sat cross-legged across from Webber, the book between them and Abigail’s hairbow on top.  
  
[Wendy began reading.](https://vimeo.com/148928299/) It wasn’t Latin or English, but something else, something odd to her ears. Webber wasn’t sure she was pronouncing any of the words correctly.  
  
“ _Mine üle, vihmakene, mine üle, vihmakene, vihmakene, vellekene, vihmakene, vellekene, ookene, omatsekene_ …”  
  
Webber let his wolf spider crawl up his arm. He thought she might be pregnant. That’d be cool. Wolf spiders carried their children on their back.  
  
“ _Vihmakene, vellekene_ —“  
  
It would be cool to be a spider. Spiders probably didn’t have sisters that loved their dead triplet more than the living one.  
  
_“Saokene, sösarakene_ …”  
  
The circle was glowing. Reminded Webber of the show a bit.  
  
_“Teed momärjäs—ma mädäne—teed momärjäs, ma mädäne—“_  
  
Wendy was getting louder, her voice echoing in the cellar. Distantly, Webber heard the elevator start up. The spider crawled up and down his arm.  
  
_“Vööros nurga nukertenu, vööras nurga nukertenu_ —“  
  
Elevator again. The flower floated above the book that Wendy had stopped reading from. Webber’s arm itched.  
  
_“Vööros kivi kergitenu, vööros kivi kergitenu_ —“  
  
Neck. Face. The sides of his head hurt. So did his actual sides.  
  
_“Vööros saina saisma pannu—“_  
  
Webber slumped over, unaware of the glowing flower, his chanting sister, the elevator descending again. The song—the spell—was reaching its climax. The skin around Webber’s eyes, down onto his cheekbones and on his forehead, was peeling and bursting. With great effort, he raised a hand and felt an eye on his cheek blink.  
  
“Wendy!”  
  
Who was that? Someone important—“ _Vihmakene, vellekene_ —“  
  
He shuddered in pain. Something was wrong with his teeth. His mouth was open and they touched his lip, scraped against fur.  
  
_“Teed mo likes, ma ligene!”_  
  
Everything hurt. Someone screamed. Wendy sang, a bright figure above him crossed its hands over its chest and had eyes closed.  
  
_“Saokene, sösarakene!”_  
  
It was over. It still hurt, but nothing new was producing itself. Webber lay on the stage floor.  
  
People kept screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never done a cliffhanger before. It's fun.
> 
> The song Wendy sings is linked at the start to an edited version with a rather explosive ending. It is actually Rainspell by Ingrid Lukas and will probably not turn you into a horrific monstrosity.


	6. In which Webber is KING OF THE SPIDERS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't ideal but it's also not the worst thing that could happen. Far from it!

This was, probably, _the best thing to happen to anyone ever._  
  
No one else seemed to think so.  
  
“I’m fine,” Webber said when he managed to struggle to his feet, the pain still lingering under his new skin. “Really,” he added as Maxwell scooped him up desperately into something like a hug. “It’s all good,” he insisted when Maxwell rounded on Wendy, yelling in fury even as he crushed her into a hug, too.  
  
Now he inspected himself into the attic mirror, Wendy and Maxwell behind him. Wendy’s face was red and blotchy from crying, Maxwell’s twisted into something younger and older, full of fear and emptiness.  
  
He peeled back his upper lip—what there was—to inspect his mouthful of sharp new fangs. He blinked each of his eight eyes—four on his cheeks, two in the regular place, two on his forehead. The amount of the world he could see now was staggering; he could almost see behind himself entirely. He ran small, furry hands with sharp claws over fuzzy black arms. His hair was still curly, but the shade matched his new fur; six antennae sprung from his head. He had six arms, awkwardly poking out of his coveralls through holes he tore in his shirt with the claws.  
  
“Wow,” he said finally. To his surprise, something echoed in his head. _Wow_.  
  
_Who is that?_ he thought.  
  
_It’s me. This situation is not ideal…._  
  
Why not? This is cool! The realization he was talking to a wolf spider sharing his head was not as disconcerting as it should’ve been.  
__  
I will not get to see my babies.  
  
Oh. Well, you can meet my friends.  
  
Webber realized his uncle was talking and refocused. “Sorry, what?”  
  
“Does it still hurt?” Maxwell’s voice was softer than usual, anxious and fussy and _British_ like their dad. His hands hovered around Webber, nervous, not touching.  
  
Webber shook his head. “No. It did, but it doesn’t anymore.”  
  
Wendy wailed. She was probably saying something, but it was obscured by tears.  
  
Webber patted her hand, his fur bristling. “S’okay, Wen. This is _neat_.”  
  
“I T-TURNED YOU INTO A M-M-MONSTER!”  
  
“Nah, it’s _neat_! Watch.” Webber whistled. An orb spider on the ceiling slowly lowered itself onto his outstretched hand on a thread of silk. It leaned in and down like a bow. “The spiders revere us as a god!”  
  
In his head, his new companion made a sound of approval at having been included.  
  
Wendy continued to bawl. Maxwell kept fussing, checking Webber over and muttering about customizing clothing.  
  
“Can’t you _fix him_!” Wendy demanded.  
  
“I cannot. The binding isn’t meant to be undone—didn’t you read the warning?”  
  
“What warning?”  
  
“On the bottom of the page!”  
  
“The whole page was in Norse!”  
  
“Estonian, actually.”  
  
The two kept bickering. Webber learned to blink with all his eyes, keeping some open at all times. It wasn’t quite like a wink.  
  
Maxwell reached for his shoulder, squeezing slightly. “Webber…I’m sorry. I should have told you two about why you shouldn’t go down there. This could have ended so much worse.”  
  
“How could this _possibly_ be worse?” Wendy asked, voice colored with despair.  
  
“Believe me.” Maxwell’s voice was low and tight. “It could.”  
  
-M-  
  
The rest of the house took the transformation of one of their number into an amalgamate abomination of a spider and a human child…surprisingly well. Wickerbottom went off to research the diet of a spider, Wigfrid declared him “a true warrior of Valhalla!”, and Wix handed each of them a twenty and looked almost impressed.  
  
Webber and Wendy finally got time alone together the next afternoon. Wickerbottom had decided that they needed a nap to sleep off their nighttime adventure, and once they were left in their room, Webber scrambled off his bed (which had a variety of spiders spinning little curtains over it—this was going to be very handy for decorating) and onto Wendy’s, sitting at the foot to face her.  
  
“Did it work?” he asked, wriggling in excitement.  
  
Wendy removed her hairbow and placed it on the quilt between them. She muttered a phrase from the spell under her breath and yanked a hangnail off her thumb with her teeth.  
  
The hairbow vibrated and glowed, and out of it sprung the translucent, wavering form of a young girl lit up from within. Anything more than the general shape of her was hard to make out, but Wendy and Webber gasped in unison.  
  
“ _Abigail_!” they cried, lunging at her. Abigail wasn’t corporeal, but with focus, Webber could embrace her. Wendy was crying.  
  
_Wendy_. Abigail’s voice was as in-between as she herself was, but Webber thought she sounded as if she was crying too. _Webber_.  
  
The Carter triplets held onto each other until Abigail kissed their heads and disappeared into the bow with a small burst of light. When she was gone, Webber stared down at the bow.  
  
“Will she be back?”  
  
“Yes. She just needs to rest a lot.” Wendy collected the hairbow carefully, placing it on the windowsill. “The more often she comes, the shorter a time she’ll be able to stay.”  
  
“Oh.” Webber stared at the bedding. “Will she be back soon?”  
  
Wendy smiled. “I think so.”  
  
-M-  
  
Wendy’s bare feet made unpleasant squelching sounds as she padded through the garden. Webber had been a spider for twenty-four hours, and it was all because of her. She hadn’t been able to sleep. Webber had, curled up in his little nest of spider silk; she had instead crept downstairs and out the coatroom door, to the gardens, where she wandered the rosebushes and stared at the sky.  
  
She started as she heard the kitchen porch creak, ducking behind one of the rosebushes. The thorns tangled in her loose hair as she burrowed into it; she felt them scratch against her arms, leaving little rivers of blood.  
  
“…Wendy?” The soft voice Maxwell had had the night before drifted gently through the air. “Is that you out here?”  
  
“…Yes,” she said after a moment, not moving to get out from behind the bush.  
  
She heard the creaking of the stairs, not looking up as Maxwell came behind the bush and sat next to her, seemingly uncaring of his nice suit getting muddy. That was a little strange. He’d always cared about his clothing, from what Wendy had seen, especially his suits and the fur coat, but he stretched one leg out in the mud, wrapping an arm around the other. For a moment, all was silent.  
  
“…I am very, very glad you and your brother are unharmed.” Maxwell’s voice was quiet as he stared up at the stars. “I could not forgive myself if my pride and stubbornness lost me more family in this house.”

“Charlie.” Wendy didn’t look at her uncle. “You mean Charlie.”  
  
“….Yes. I mean Charlie—and Wilson. They were very dear to me, and it is my fault they’re gone.” His voice cracked slightly on the last word.  
  
“…It’s my fault Abigail is dead.”  
  
To his credit, Maxwell did not try to convince her otherwise. He watched the silver moon and waited patiently for Wendy to continue.  
  
“We were going to a party. A party for a girl in my class. I was the one who said we should go. And…when we…Abigail fell in front of me. Got in front of me, really. They said she was hit with all the force of the impact and it saved me. It’s my f-fault.” Wendy gulped down a sob. “It…”  
  
Maxwell waited.  
  
“It should have been me.” Her voice was barely a whisper.  
  
“Oh, Wendy.” She felt her uncle wrap his arms around her. “Don’t you think if she was here, she’d say the same thing about you?”  
  
-M-  
  
Maxwell took her to the kitchen, where she sat on the counter and he made hot chocolate. “Charlie always did this when one of us was upset,” he murmured as he poured the thick liquid into a mug and handed it to her. “Here.”  
  
Wendy took a sip. It was just about perfect. “What was she like?”  
  
Maxwell sighed. “Oh, she was…she was wonderful. Charlie made me feel like I was everything in the world that mattered. Everyone who met her adored her—she was…she just radiated happiness. You couldn’t not love her.” He sipped his own cocoa, staring out the window to the gardens.  
  
“And Wilson?”  
  
“He was Charlie’s best friend. Intelligent, if not a particularly sociable fellow. He was kicked out of graduate school for failing grades—he was more than smart enough, of course, but he was severely depressed at the time. I like to think he got better, with us.”  
  
“What was he to you?” Wendy watched him closely. An idea was formulating in her head that perhaps the newspapers had not been very far off, if with the wrong set of participants.  
  
Maxwell fidgeted. “…You’re a smart girl. I’m sure you understand that not all relationships between adults are _traditional_ —so long as everyone consents, well, any combination is possible.” He sighed. “I married Charlie, and Wilson was my best man. We considered ourselves married as well—he recited the vows alongside Charlie that day, if not aloud. And he and Charlie, you would never find a closer pair of friends than them. They were close long before either of them met me.”  
  
Wendy considered this, then nodded and took a drink of her cocoa. Maxwell relaxed. “Clever girl. I knew you could understand.”  
  
“What happened to them?”  
  
Maxwell gave a violent flinch. “…That, sweetheart, is not something to speak of.”  
  
Wendy didn’t press. She sipped her cocoa, the gears in her head turning. “How did everyone else get here?”  
  
“Oh, people come and go. They just show up. My show is not entirely fiction—and no one _means_ to come to Clockworks. The reasons for that are much the same as why something akin to true magic works here.”  
  
“Liminal spaces. Leylines.” As she had suspected.  
  
“Leylines.” He nodded. “This place is…in between. Between magic and reality. Consider a wall between our world and others. Clockworks is right next to the door. Sometimes things get through.”  
  
“How does it work?” Wendy was almost out of cocoa, the dregs swirling in her cup.  
  
“I have no idea. I try to understand it, but I can barely control the simple things I summon. They—“ He cut off and stared out the window to the garden.  
  
“They?”  
  
“Yes.” He didn’t elaborate. “You should get back to bed. We both should.”  
  
Wendy nodded. Her head felt heavy, stuffed with cotton. She had been awake for twenty-four hours and counting and it was catching up to her.  
  
Maxwell took her empty cocoa mug and placed it in the sink, picking her up with ease and letting her rest her head on his shoulder. He carried her back through the gardens, the cloakroom, the lobby; up the staircase, down the hall, and to the attic stairs. When they reached the attic, Wendy had fallen asleep on Maxwell’s shoulder.  
  
He smiled to himself, giving Webber’s bed and its new curtains of spider-silk a wide berth and laying Wendy on hers, tucking her quilt around her and quietly going back down to the first floor and his own bedroom.  
  
The bed was still large enough for three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today I began writing the final chapter of Act 1, which will be chapter ten. So you can expect four more chapters before Intermission.


	7. In which Willow burns down a Pinkberry, and that’s not even the worst thing that happened today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, I hope you guys are ready for a fucking party now! What's this? A plot, in MY fic? It's more likely than you think!
> 
> In all seriousness, I'm sorry for the wait. Getting home from vacation took time two weeks ago, then I just forgot last week.

September became October, and the leaves began to fall.

Clockworks didn’t change much with the season. Some places had hay bales or pumpkins, but it wasn’t particularly excited for the upcoming holiday; people went about their business as usual. 

Cyclum House did begin changing in preparation for the upcoming show. Maxwell added _Stagework_ to the chore charts for the adults, and the triplets watched as everyone busied themselves. Even Wix left his calculations to do something on the catwalk with the lighting.

Wendy and Webber ventured into town a few times. Surprisingly few people took note of the six-armed, eight-eyed, black-furred spider child. Maxwell had been right; the people of Clockworks were oddly at ease with the paranormal.

The triplets familiarized themselves with the town—the library, the grocery, the consignment shop. There wasn’t really much to see. The woman who ran the diner would give them free milkshakes with a wink; Wendy got Wickerbottom to go with her to receive a library card and enjoyed several hours of the old lady’s glowing praise; Webber somehow managed to earn the endearment of the regulars at Clockwork’s only bar.

 Their second or third trip out, Wendy finally saw something she liked—a pair of bikes leaning against the wall of the consignment shop, one in mint green and one in black. They were old and sunbleached and a bit rusty; she wanted one desperately.

Webber did too. He tugged at her sleeve, then ran up to the woman who was tagging all the outdoor items and started talking animatedly. Wendy watched as he lowered his (many) arms and slunk back over, looking dejected (Wendy thought. It had once been easier than breathing to read her triplet’s face, but now it was something she had to learn. She squashed down the guilt that rose up and threatened to devour her whole again.)

 “What did she say?” she asked instead.

Webber slumped. “Together they’re _fifty dollars_.”

Wendy still had fifteen dollars from the payoff to their ill-advised basement adventure. Webber only had seven left. Maxwell did not believe in allowance, and even if he had, the bikes would definitely be gone in the time that it took them to get fifty dollars.

“…Lemonade stand?” Webber suggested after a moment of silence.

“No. We could steal—“ 

“No!” 

They sat on the curb and tried to look pathetic. No affluent strangers came along. “…We could ask a grown-up?”

 “I don’t think they’d help.”

 “Wix might.”

 “Wix might take over the world with an army of psychopathic Terminator robots to get revenge on MIT. I don’t think we should listen to Wix.”

 Webber giggled, then sobered. “…Willow?”

 “She wouldn’t buy us bikes.”

 “No, but she might have a better idea.”

 Wendy shrugged. “I suppose we can try.”

-M-

They waited until dinner that night—sandwiches and a broccoli soup that looked just like straight pesto sauce and slid down Wendy’s throat in a distinctly gross way—to ask Willow, as casually as possible. Webber waited for a lull in the conversation, then said, in the tone of someone just remembering something that they certainly hadn’t been thinking over all day, “Wendy and I went to town again today.”

 “Oh, really?” Willow asked through a mouthful of BLT. “What’d you do there?”

 “Looked around. Wendy annoyed the post office lady and we found a new friend outside the library. We asked if she wanted to go with us, but she had babies.”

 Wendy nudged him with her foot in an attempt to get him back on track before he could get too distracted. Webber refocused. “And we went to the consignment shop. They had cool bikes there.”

 “Did’ja get ‘em?” asked Willow.

Webber looked like a kicked puppy—or, perhaps more accurately, a kicked spider. “Nooo. We don’t have any money.”

 “You could have a lemonade stand,” Wickerbottom suggested.

 Wendy made a face. “No. That’s for babies.”

 "You can steal,” muttered Wix, who had been dragged to dinner against his will and was now looking rather like he wanted to murder someone with his spoon. Wickerbottom smacked him upside the head.

“No stealing,” said Willow. 

“Says the arsonist who escaped from _prison_.”

 “At least I didn’t get kicked out of my school—“

 “Enough.” Maxwell’s voice was low and commanding. Everyone shut up at once. “If you two wish to have the bikes, I will go into town with you tomorrow and purchase them for you. You can then pay _me_ back in your own time. I trust that that will solve the problem?”

 “Yes, Uncle Max,” chorused the triplets, grinning at each other.

 “Good.” He drained his wineglass, stood, and left. Willow made a small, worried noise. The other two wineglasses sat in front of their empty plates, sparkling like rubies.

-M-

 Maxwell was true to his word, and the next day he and the triplets trooped down to Clockworks Consignment Shop, where the two ran for the bikes. Maxwell squinted. “…I can get you better ones, you know. I wouldn’t have you pay more than what these cost even.”

 “No,” said Wendy firmly. “These are good.”

 Maxwell allowed her a smile, if a slightly confused one, and swept into the shop, coat dusting the porch. Wendy and Webber sat outside and examined their soon-to-be new bikes.

 They were so wrapped up in this that they didn’t look around for some time. Maxwell exited the shop, patted them on the heads, and headed off for the library; finally, Wendy looked up.

There was a small, thin man in a wide-brimmed hat across the street, staring at them.

Wendy stared back, slowly tugging Webber’s sleeve. When he looked up, opening his mouth, she shushed him and pointed.

The little man stared at Webber. His mouth spread into a smile, and kept spreading. He had far too many teeth.

Wendy gave an involuntary shiver. An ant crawled across the pavement; she carefully squashed it with her thumb, and felt a now-familiar presence materialize behind her.

The man kept staring, and smiling.

Wendy looked at Webber, but when she looked up again the man was gone. The triplets were flipping the kickstands on their new bikes when he sidled up behind them.

“Hey, buddy!” His voice was small and squeaky, with some kind of weird, indefinable European accent. He himself was even shorter than Wendy; she could probably take him, if she had to. “Nice bikes.”

“We’re not supposed to talk to strangers,” said Webber. There was no such rule. In fact, Maxwell encouraged them to speak with Clockworks denizens they didn’t know.

His smile stretched wider. His teeth never ended. “Aw, c’mon. I just wanna say hi to Willy’s new friends!”

“…Will?” Wendy nudged Webber, who mounted his bike as casually as he could.

“Yeah! Your uncle.” He held out a small withered hand with raggedy nails. “Call me Mr. Skits. I think I could be of use t’you.”

Neither of them took his hand. His smile did not falter; in fact, it grew. “You want to know things, don’t you?” He stuck his hand in the pocket of his formless black hoodie and pulled out a card, holding it out to Wendy between two thin fingers. She took it gingerly and he winked. “You’ll know what to do.”

He was gone. She hadn’t noticed him leave. Wendy stuck the card in her pocket, Abigail curling around her protectively, and mounted her own bike. Willow had promised she’d buy them froyo.

-M-

Willow met them in the town square, where they parked their bikes and walked to the Pinkberry on the corner.

“We haven’t had frozen yogurt since our parents died,” Webber said, characteristically cheerful. He was loading up his chocolate froyo with cookie crumbs, gummy bears, M&Ms, fudge…

Wendy grimaced and poured caramel and butterscotch on her own vanilla yogurt. “Ew, Webber. Why?”

“It’s all so good.” Webber handed over his cup to be weighed. “We couldn’t just pick a few.”

Wendy pulled another face and handed over hers. Willow was digging out money, holding her own cup of strawberry yogurt and walnuts.

They sat at a little pastel metal table. Willow dug a paper bag with a bottle in it out of her jacket.

“Where was she _keeping_ that?” Wendy muttered to her brother, bemused and yet slightly in awe. Webber shrugged, cheeks full of froyo.

Their peace was disturbed when a manager tapped Willow on the shoulder. “Erm…. miss? I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”

Willow had fire in her eyes. Wendy had a bad feeling about this.

 -M-

“What the everloving hell is going on here?” Maxwell demanded as he stormed up to the Pinkberry. Wendy and Webber sat on the curb eating their froyo, and a number of the townsfolk were crowded around the entrance where Willow was being yelled at by the manager.

“Willow tried to burn down the Pinkberry!” Webber announced.

Willow looked affronted. “I didn’t just _try_ to burn down the Pinkberry! I _succeeded_ in burning the Pinkberry and only got stopped by the sprinkler system!”

Wendy watched with increasing amusement as Maxwell massaged his forehead. “Oh, I might as well—Willow, _why_ were you trying to burn down the Pinkberry?”

“Cause I explained that there weren’t any rules _against_ adding lots of rum to your own froyo while you’re outside the shop. There coulda been anything in that bag, he didn’t have to call the police!”

“ _Well I’m certainly going to now!”_ shrieked the irate manager, face rapidly turning the color of mulberries.

“No, hold on.” Maxwell held up a hand. “Willow, what _else_ would you be putting in your froyo.”

“Soda? Coulda been soda.” Willow’s frown deepened.

Maxwell sighed and looked long-suffering. “Sir. I apologize for the abysmal behavior—and general personality—of my charge, but there’s no need to call the police. No damage was done, I _promise_ she will not be returning, and you will be…compensated.” He scrawled something on a scrap of paper and handed it to the manager. His eyes boggled and he nodded.

“Yes. That will work, just…make her _leave_!”

“Dinner should be fun,” Wendy muttered to Webber. He snickered.

-M-

Dinner _was_ fun.

-M-

Wendy sat in bed, turning the small card over in her hands. It was a very dark grey, not quite black. MR. SKITS was written on the front in silver; on the back, in a deep red, was SHADOW AGENCY.

 _You will know what to do,_ the strange little man had said.

She held the card in her hand, Abigail watching silently over her shoulder.

Yes.

She knew what to do.

She slid off the bed and padded over to the dresser, opening the bottom drawer where her neat rows of blouses were stored. She lifted a stack and slipped the card underneath; she put the pile back and shut the drawer, heading to bed.

As she adjusted her new “curtains”—Willow had helped her nail sheets and quilts down around her bed from the sloped ceiling, to match Webber’s spider-silk privacy—Abigail murmured in her ear. _Get rid of it. It’s evil. I can feel it._

“I know,” Wendy said quietly, climbing into bed and pulling the yellow quilt around herself. “But…just in case.”

 _That…._ thing _should not be a just in case. He frightens me. He is not human._

“I could tell.” Wendy buried her face in the pillow.

 _He watches_ , whispered Abigail.

Wendy shoved her other pillow over her head and pulled shut the quilts. Outside, Abigail hovered, then sighed and went to sit in the window, staring out into the forest behind Cyclum House.


	8. In which we have a Typical Fall Day and meet some Friends of Mr. Skits

In mid-October, Wendy and Webber put on sweaters and gloves and boots, piled into the car, and were accompanied by Woodie, Wolfgang, Wes, and Wickerbottom to Clockworks’ only orchard.

“We’re gonna get apples,” Woodie hummed as he started up the car.

Wes signed something that the kids only understand a few words of. Wolfgang laughed and turned to them. “He say, it sound like joke—a Russian, a Canadian, a Frenchman, a Englishwoman, an’ two lil’ Americans get into a car.”

Wendy laughed. Webber did, too, even though he didn’t get it.

The car was cramped. Woodie drove, with Wolfgang in the passenger seat and Wes in his lap. Wickerbottom, in the backseat with the triplets, kept sniffing in disdain at their poor road safety. Webber was stuck in the middle and was holding Wendy’s cold hand in his own warm, fuzzy one. Abigail was in the hairbow, Wendy having decided not to introduce that particular variable yet. She told Webber it was sometimes good to have a secret. It weighed on him all the same.

The car rumbled up to the barn and the wayward crazies tumbled out, shortly followed by the triplets. Wickerbottom headed for the counter where a bored redhead sat with feet kicked up; Woodie beelined to a display of axes, and Wolfgang and Wes stayed with the triplets. Wolfgang stood behind them and looked intimidating. Wes stood beside him, casually nonchalant, a pair of small round sunglasses perched on his nose and a bomber jacket overtop of his sweater and scarf. Webber rather admired his ability to look cooler than anyone in the house while still wearing full makeup. He was more dapper than even Maxwell, probably, he thought.

After a few moments, they regrouped, each taking a wicker basket from the large pile in the back of the barn and trooping out to the orchards. Others were there, too, families mostly, picking apples and sometimes pears.

Wendy and Webber ended up at a tree of gala apples. “Go up,” Wendy told her brother. “Where everyone else can’t reach.”

Webber nodded and saluted. He approached the tree with some trepidation, eventually reaching up with his topmost arms for a low-hanging branch. With three sets of arms he quickly hit a rhythm, scaling it with ease until he was out of sight, perched on a high branch among green leaves and pulling near-perfect apples from around him.

It was quiet in the tree, the conversation and laughter of the other orchardgoers fading to white noise below him. Webber hummed and filled his basket with ripe fruit, calm and at—

“Hey!”

Webber shrieked, nearly tumbling off the branch and losing a few apples in the process. He watched them in dismay as they bounced down, hitting branches and undoubtedly bruising. He steadied himself, turning around on the branch. “Who’re you? How’d you get here?”

“I could ask you the same thing!” the man in the branches chirped. “Long as you’re not so  _jumpy_ —boys!”

Two more figures joined him across from Webber. The first man he’d seen was tall and skinny and wore glasses half the size of his face; on his right was a person who was short and skinny, with no defining features and nothing to indicate their gender. They also looked significantly younger than the other two. They also looked significantly younger than the other two—barely older than Webber, really. On the left was a man who was tall and fat; Webber wasn’t sure how the branches held him. He had a guarded expression and a broad, surly face; still, Webber looked distrustfully to the first man in the middle, warier of him than either his companions.

The first man smiled and Webber shivered. He had three rows of teeth—not even sharp teeth, and not like an animal’s mouth, but  _human_  teeth, flat and wide. “I’m Mr. Bishop. This is Mr. Rook and Mr. Knight.”

The fat one, Mr. Rook, grunted. He stared at Webber over his expansive nose with beady, watery eyes. The short one. Mr. Knight, chittered softly, almost like an animal of some kind, their greasy hair waving softly as if underwater. It looked almost as if they were glaring at Mr. Bishop.

“…D’you know Mr. Skits?” Webber asked after a second.

Mr. Knight chittered loudly and Mr. Bishop laughed. “Skits is the boss!” he crowed, adjusting his position in the branch. For a moment, his too-long limbs were contorted in ways human limbs  _did not move_. “He sent us t’c’mere an’ chat with you.”

“Chat with us about what?” Webber asked. Despite himself, he was intrigued.

Mr. Bishop waved his hand airily. “Stuff! He just wanted us t’get t’know ya. Just in case.”

“In case of  _what_?” Webber peered at them through his eight eyes, keeping his field of vision split between the tree behind him and the trio. Mr. Knight was almost unravelling, unnaturally long and bent limbs curling around the branches, their long hair waving lazily. Mr. Rook had not moved from his spot closest to the trunk. In the center, Mr. Bishop’s teeth were in full view as he smiled, open-mouthed.

“In case of emergency. Call us…emergency contacts. Skits gave ya sister ‘is card, an’ you get ours.” He held it out, a flat rectangle in the center of a thin palm—long fingers, sharp nails. “We like ya, kiddo! Ya got moxie. An’ those spider bits, you’d get along real well with some’a our friends! Now,” he said quickly as Webber’s expression shuttered, “this is an’  _emergency_  contact. Ya don’t gotta come with us  _now._  Course not. You just gotta keep the card safe, an—“

“Webber!” came Woodie’s voice from below. “Webber, where are you?”

Mr. Bishop pressed the card into Webber’s front pocket. “Keep it safe, kid. You’ll know what to do. Be seeing you.” He whistled sharply and the trio bounded away, only Mr. Knight pausing to look back at Webber.

The card burned in his pocket as he clambered back down the tree, basket over his arm. “We’re right here!”

-M-

“Alright,” said Wendy, “what was that about?”

Webber looked up from his book, curled on his bed in a silk nest. “What was  _what_ about?”

Wendy huffed. “In the tree. You were up there for a long time and you were  _quiet_ when you came back down.”

Webber didn’t answer aloud. Instead he pulled the card from his pocket and handed it to Wendy. “Haven’t had a chance to look at it much yet.”

Wendy studied it, sparing a glance to Mr. Skits’s card on the windowsill, and handed it back. “Why’d they give you a blank one?”

“We—“ Webber hesitated, looking at the card. “We dunno.”

Wendy frowned. “Dull.” She swung her legs over the edge of her bed and stood, closing the quilts. “I am going to go help Uncle with the pies. Have fun.”

“M’kay.” He pretended to read his book. Once Wendy was gone, he pulled out the card again.

It wasn’t blank. One side read SHADOW AGENCY EMERGENCY CONTACTS in black, the other QUEEN’S GUARD in white. The card itself was a deep, rich red.

Webber placed it on the bed very slowly and fumbled for Wendy’s card on the windowsill.

He looked at the blank, dark grey card, and then at his own—which, if he had to guess, Wendy saw as a plain red card.

He put Wendy’s back carefully and hid his own in the back of his book. Wendy hated  _Treasure Island_.

Late at night, Wendy asked the darkness, “What did you do with the card?”

“Oh,” said Webber. “We threw it away.”

“Mm.” Wendy shifted in her bed. “Who did you see up in the tree?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her, as he told her everything. The strange and toothy Mr. Bishop, the loose-limbed multi-jointed Mr. Knight, silent and fat Mr. Rook. He surprised himself when he said “No one. We just found the card.”

“Oh,” said Wendy.

All was silent in the attic.

-M-

“You’re not alright.”

  
“I don’t need you to tell me what I am or am not, Willow.”

Willow had to go at a slight jog to keep up with Maxwell’s pace as he stormed through the house. “I’m right, aren’t I? This is real. And so is the stuff you want to do.”

“If I tell you the truth, will you leave me alone?”

“Probably not. You can try, though.”

“Heh. Let it never be said you aren’t honest.” He stopped and turned to Willow. “Yes. What I am doing is as close to magic as anyone can get this side of the leyline. No, I cannot tell you how it works. I don’t know myself.”

Willow stared up at him defiantly, fire burning in her eyes. (That was a good one. She should write that down.) “Then how are you  _doing_  it?”

“The same way I or any magician does parlor tricks.” His smile was humorless. “I follow the instructions.” 

“Where’d you get the ‘instructions?’” Her mouth was turned into a small, annoyed frown. 

“Haven’t you asked enough questions?”

“I don’t think I have, no.” She narrowed her eyes. “Your brother dies in a car crash and your niblings come to live with us, okay. At the same time you’re doing a new show that you refuse to rehearse, one night only, and--Max, we can all see what it’s taking out of you!”

“You take care of you, Willow.”

“There’s something bigger going on this time and we all know it. I know for a  _fact_  that that elevator was broken. The key’s been on the table all four years I’ve been here. Probably longer. And then the key’s gone, and Webber found out that the elevator’s  _fixed_ , but you  _pretended_  it was broken, and we don’t want to make a big deal out of it cause it’d upset the kid but  _what the fuck?_  He’s a spider, Maxy! A--”

“ _Don’t call me that_.” His voice was stormy and brokered no arguments. Willow conceded.

“Geez, sorry.” Well, she was never one to concede with grace when she was right. “But weird stuff is happening. Weirder than usual. You can’t pretend it’s not.”

“I’m not pretending. I have this under control.”

“Right, that explains why you constantly look like you just went five rounds with Wolfgang after doing crystal meth.” Willow rolled her eyes and crossed her arms.

“Trust me, Willow.” Maxwell’s smile was something ancient and deadly. “I haven’t felt better in years.”

-M-

Wendy sat on the swing set and kicked her legs, the creaking chain the only sound she could hear, her skirt hiked up around her legs to feel the cold red rubber on her skin. The playground was deserted, calm. She’d been visiting since she was a little girl, but now the forest seemed to stretch further than it ever had, encroaching on the playground. And she distinctly remembered it having had  _color_.

“Oh,” she said aloud. “I’m dreaming.”

That made more sense. Now that Wendy thought about it, she remembered being upset when the playground had closed down. It had been very sudden. She wasn’t allowed to go outside for a while after that, either; none of the neighborhood kids had been. 

“Someone went missing.”

Wendy turned. On the swing beside her sat Abigail, her hair braided neatly and her hairbow neatly clipped to the end. “Really?”

“Yeah, I remember. A little girl went missing. She was our age at the time.” A pause. “It was March. Of 2007.” Abigail looked at Wendy expectantly.

  
It didn’t take her long. “When Charlie and Wilson disappeared.”

“Exactly.” Abigail kicked off, the chains creaking, her small hands wrapped around grey metal. Above them the sky was growing cloudy, surrounding the colorful playground in a dome of monochrome grey. “They closed the playground and it ended up getting knocked down. They built a Walgreens.”

“Not a coincidence, I’m guessing,” Wendy said softly.

“No.  **They**  weren’t looking for Renee.”

“...Whoever it was...was looking for...us?” Wendy didn’t look at her triplet.

“Yeah.  **They** were looking for us.”

Wendy stared at the forest ahead. A splash of color darted between the grey tree-trunks; a red raincoat, black boots. The raincoat stopped to stare at them from the treeline.

“Hello, Renee,” called Abigail.

Renee stared, then melted slowly back into the forest. Abigail sighed, the swing-chains creaking as she dragged her feet in the woodchips. 

“She’s stuck, and she didn’t choose to be,” she said mournfully. “They forgot about her.”

Wendy was watching the spot where Renee had been. “Who’s  _that_?” she asked.

There was no reply. She glanced back over to see an empty swing, swaying slightly. The clouds grew darker and converged, leaving Wendy in the grey. When she looked back to the forest, the thing she’d seen was gone.

Well, not gone. It was on the playground.

“Hello,” said Wendy.

 **Hello** , said the thing. Now that it was closer, Wendy could see that  _it_  was possibly  _she_ \--wavy tendrils of hair, a long dress, a long cloak. She melted into the shadows on the playground, crouched down with her face pressed against the bar.

“Who are you?” Wendy asked.

**I watch.**

“Do you have a name?”

 **I….** It faltered, looking unsure of itself. **I watch?**

“Watcher?” Wendy tried. It looked relieved. “Mr. Watcher.” Less relieved. It made a hissing noise, stretching a hand through the bars, its face pressed against them further. Its eyes were blank and white. 

**No. I am not of the Shadow Agency.**

“You don’t know Mr. Skits?”

**I know. I do not work with.**

“Oh.” Wendy looked at the empty swing, then back up at the playground. The Watcher was gone. She looked back at the swing. The Watcher sat on it, the bottom of its dress melting into the woodchips and spilling shadow through the cracks.

 **This looks fun,** it said. The swing began to move without the Watcher kicking. The dress remained attached to the ground and the spreading shadow pulled like taffy. It made a strange sound.  **This _is_  fun!**

Wendy realized the sound was a laugh when the Watcher made it again. She began kicking her legs. “If you’re not with Mr. Skits, what are you? You look like him.”

**I watch.**

“What do you watch?”

 **Lots!** It sounded pleased with itself.  **I enjoy watching you. You and your brother are curious. I would not have Skits corrupt you.**

Wendy didn’t really have a response to that. She kicked harder, flew higher.

**Do not use the card.**

Higher. She didn’t come down and all she saw was clouds and grey--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thanks to my lovely and talented friend Mayli for use of her interpretation of the shadow watcher.


	9. In which we return to the cellar.

 

It was one week until the final performance of  _Nightmare_  and for all appearances, Maxwell was starting to go slightly crazy. He ran the house with neurotic obsession; if chores weren’t done on time, he panicked, yelling at whoever was nearby whether they were responsible for the chore in the first place or not. He was paler than usual at dinner and barely touched his food--even when he’d been the one to cook it, though Wickerbottom had agreed to take over that particular responsibility for the time being--before leaving early to rehearse the night’s show. After the show, he disappeared into his bedroom and didn’t emerge until morning, but Willow and Wigfrid insisted that there was light under the door even when they were sneaking out to the gardens at two-thirty in the morning.

“Why’d you wanna  _go_  to the gardens?” Webber asked. Wigfrid opened her mouth and Willow punched her in the arm.

The gardens weren’t being visibly tended, at least not visibly, but they somehow looked better than they had since the triplets had arrived. Wendy looked out the window one night and saw  _something_  human-shaped in the bushes, pruning, but whoever it was wore all black, Which seemed weird, but okay.

It felt like the card on the windowsill was calling her, telling her that the time was coming close to use it. She tried to ignore it. 

The day of the show, everyone had gone missing. Well, technically untrue. Wix was in his room. Wickerbottom and Wes had gone for groceries. The rest were in the theatre, working away at whatever Maxwell was ordering them to do.

Wendy and Webber played checkers, and then they played hide and seek; when that got old, they took out Maxwell’s expensive chess set that they weren’t supposed to touch. They looked at all the real silver and gold pieces, and the checkers made of marble and obsidian, and the board with its melted-obsidian edges, and when they were bored with that they put it all back where it was, rode their bikes to town, rode back, and it was still only noon. 

Willow emerged from the theatre covered in dust to make them egg salad sandwiches, looking nervous. “New orders from the boss man,” she said without being prompted. “None of us are to see the show tonight.”

Wendy blinked and Webber whined. “What? But we really wanted to see it!”

“Did he say why?” asked Wendy.

“No. Just that everyone had to be in their rooms and he’d be checking before the show started.” Willow poked at her sandwich. 

Wendy and Webber exchanged a Knowing Triplet Glance. “Alright,” said Webber mournfully. “But he better do something  _really_  special to make up for it.”

Wendy just ate her sandwich. When a fly came by, she swatted it quickly and felt her hairbow shudder. Abigail did not emerge--likely because Willow was also in the room. Wendy could feel her annoyance at being summoned and not allowed out.

“Well, we’re going to go play,” she said when she’d finished her sandwich. “Come on, Webber.”

“But we’re not quite finished--”

“You  _said_  you would  _play._ ” She gave him a Triplet Look. A “I’m  _trying_ to do something  _cool_  here, so stop screwing this up” look.

Webber slouched. “On...right.” As Wendy pulled him out of the kitchen, he looked forlornly at the sandwich. “...but we weren’t quite finished.”

“I don’t care. We’ve got important work we must be doing.” The triplets raced through the fog-covered gardens and the entertaining hall, up the large staircase and into the elevator lobby.

“What important work?”

“Finding out what our uncle needs such secrecy for, of course.” Wendy stood on the end table and balanced on one foot to grab the elevator key from the top of the grille. She held it up triumphantly and jumped off, inserting it into the control panel. “And where else can secrets be kept in this place?”

“Probably the theatre,” Webber said with a shrug.

“We’ll look there next,” Wendy promised. The grille squeaked open and Wendy dropped the key in the pocket of her skirt, stepping in. “You coming?”

Webber hesitated, plucked a large white  _Misumena vatia_ from the wall and put her on his shoulder, and followed.

The first journey to the basement had seemed exploratory, ancient and magical. Now, the elevator was chilly and claustrophobic, too-loud metallic grinding grating on his ears. Webber felt his friend grip his fur tightly and patted her with the index finger of one of his middle hands as the triplets descended into darkness. 

The basement was much as he remembered it--the enormous, empty theatre, the office on the stage. Wendy and Webber held hands as they crossed the chamber, footsteps echoing against the vaulted ceiling.

“I didn’t notice that the first time,” Wendy said thoughtfully, looking up. “It’s a lot bigger than a cellar would be in a house like this. We must be quite far underground.”

Behind them, a tiny army of spiders was amassing, trailing Webber with quiet diligence. Abigail trailed with the spiders, her ethereal form occasionally flitting across the room or to inspect the ceiling. 

Wendy released Webber’s hand once they reached the stage, climbing up as best as she could. Webber was much quicker, his spiders swarming up after him. “What are we looking for?”

Wendy, however, was fixated on the desk. “I already found what’s not here.”

“Yeah?”

“The book with the binding spell. It’s gone.”

“...It could be somewhere else,” suggested Webber. “We’ll look around.”

As Webber began rifling through the shelves, Wendy opened the desk drawers. The bottoms were papered with clippings from the local newspaper, falling apart with age. She moved aside the writing paraphernalia in the top drawer to carefully lift up a familiar article.

_LOCAL SWEETHEART MISSING._

“...Wendy?” Webber’s voice shook.

“Did you find the book?”

“...Nooo….”

“Then what--” Wendy turned and stopped. A bookcase had swung out on hinges to reveal a path into darkness. He stuck his arm in; a pair of lights silently came to life. He took his arm out; they went off. 

“...What is it?”

“We pulled a book out and it  _opened_.”

Wendy tiptoed over in wonder, staring into the passage. “Where do you think it goes?”

“Dunno.”

She looked at him. “One way to find out.”

“...Do we  _have_  to go down the creepy hallway?”

“We always go down the creepy hallway.”

“Oh, yeah….” Webber sighed. “We hate that about us.”

Hand in hand, Abigail at their backs, the triplets took a step into the hallway.

-M-

Webber tried to track where they were in relation to the house, only to quickly realize they had to be off the property and into the woods. His other half had remained quiet since they entered the hallway, perhaps even since they’d entered the basement, the lights turning on as they approached and off as they left each set behind. 

“How long is this?” he asked Wendy.

“We’ve been walking for fifteen minutes.”

“How do you know?”

She held up her arm to show the other two her watch.

“Oh,” said Webber. Abigail said nothing.

They kept walking.

 _Wendy_ , said Abigail,  _your watch isn’t working._

“...Oh.” Wendy looked at it. “Yes, you’re right.”

They kept walking.

Finally, after what seemed like an age, the lights stopped coming up ahead and revealed a door. 

“Another door,” said Wendy.

 _No shit_ , said Abigail. 

Webber was the one to push it open. His rider was still curiously silent. 

The door opened onto a clearing in the woods with a playground of rotting wood and rusted chains at the far edge. It took Webber a minute to realize what was so unsettling--the forest, the playground, none of it had any color. The single exception was a tiny figure in a fire-engine-red raincoat playing on the swingset. 

Wendy was immobile behind him. Faintly, he heard her speak, but he stepped into the strange monochrome forest anyway.

A thing materialized in the center, melting out of the shadows. It had frighteningly long and bent limbs, and a very long neck, and wide, blank eyes. It had long hair, and a longer dress and a cloak that bled like ink or tar into the shadows of the grass, snaky tendrils breaking off.

“Watcher,” Wendy said.

Without her face moving at all, the Watcher smiled.  **Wendy.**

“Where are we?” asked Webber.

 **Between.** She wavered slightly. **You don’t belong here. You shouldn’t stay too long. You do not wish to be trapped in the nightmare realm; you will not escape.**

“People live here?” Webber asked. Even ignoring the lack of color, the forest looked  _dead_. There was a small signpost by the playground, arrows of wood pointing in various directions.  _The Hospital. The Boneyard. Agency HQ._

**Not people anymore. They are corrupted, as Renee is.**

At the edge of the forest, the swing halted abruptly and the figure looked up. Webber hesitantly waved. The little girl waved back. “Where do they come from?”

 **From the ones like your sister. Like your uncle.** Webber felt Wendy grab his hand protectively. **You were lucky. You got your Abigail back, and you are alive here.**

“We’re—you’re talking in circles!” Webber cried out. “Where are we? What are _you_? What’s Renee got to do with it? What is our uncle planning?”

Watcher flickered and blinked over to them, looking sad. **I wish I did not have to worry you.**

“We’re already worried,” said Webber, a little quieter. “Please tell us.”

Watcher wavered. **I…will tell you what I can.**

“Thank you.”

Wendy and Webber followed Watcher to the swing set hand in hand. The girl, Renee, had gone back to swinging, the hood of her coat pulled up over her thick curly hair. She didn’t acknowledge them.

 **Your leylines are a door, yes?** Watcher began, seating in one of the swings next to Renee. Wendy and Webber took the remaining two. **This is the other side. Once they called it Faerie, now it is more called the Nightmare Realm.** She somehow gestured, sans arms, to the forest. **There are as many parts of the Nightmare Realm as there are past kings and queens, and their numbers are multitude. Humans, stolen from your world and brought here. They fought and survived only to find that the court that they thought could send them home was but another lost human. In despair, they take their place.**

“Who steals them?” Wendy asked. “Who was here _first_?”

Watcher dropped. **My kind. We have been called many things by your humans—Seelie and UnSeelie, goblins, bogarts, demons. We call ourselves _Us_ and _Them_.**

“ **Them**.” A memory flashed in Wendy’s mind—Maxwell’s hands shaking on a cup of cocoa. “And you?”

**I am unaligned. I do not want to continue tricking and stealing humans. We can cycle the ones we have for the monarchy, and not risk discovery. Your presence in this realm proves my point.**

“That’s where we are, and what you are. What’s Renee?”

 **One of many humans to come here, though she was never queen.** A tendril reached out and caressed Renee’s shoulder. The child didn’t notice or care. **She is as all humans become here. Empty, hollow. How Skits and the Clockwork Guard would have you be.**

Watcher turned to them—blank unfathomable eyes set in an expressionless face. **But truly, I know not what your uncle plans**.

Ideas were turning in Wendy’s head. Webber could see it. He had one or two of his own— _awful_ ideas, that he hoped weren’t right. “I…Watcher, are Charlie and Wilson here?”

Watcher didn’t answer, but that was all the proof Wendy seemed to need. Her eyes filled with horror. “Webber. The spell. He’s _summoning_ them. He’s trying to _bring them back_.”

“But it needs a price—like Abigail’s ghost for us.” Abigail swirled around Webber comfortingly, but the terrible knowledge of what Maxwell was going to do filled his thoughts. “And—and he doesn’t want us there—because we’d get _hurt_ —“

“The audience,” Wendy whispered, what little color filled her face draining away rapidly. The triplets reached the only answer at the same time.  
“They’re a sacrifice.”

“Like you—“

“Abigail’s spirit for part of us—“

“An entire audience to bring back two people—“

Somewhere in the distance there was barking. Watcher froze. **Your time draws short. You must leave this place. The hounds are baying.** She blinked over to the door they entered by—simply a door to nowhere standing in the middle of the woods, but it opened to a cavernous hallway. **Quickly. Be wise. Be brave. Be tricky.**

Holding hands, Abigail at their backs, Wendy and Webber sprinted for the door, hearing it slam behind them. Only two lights later they were pushing open the bookcase and spilling into the underground stage.

“We have to stop him!” Webber grabbed at Wendy’s arm.

 _Your watch!_ exclaimed Abigail.

They looked at Wendy’s watch. The face read 9:00.

Above them there was the sudden and uproarious cheer of a crowd.

Wendy paled. “We’ve been gone for _hours_.”

“Showtime,” said Webber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter remains before Intermission.
> 
> The current plan for Intermission: an animatic, several pieces of art, a planned short story, and I'm going to open the heirstothecarterlegacy blog for prompts as long as they're not spoilery in nature. If you're so inclined you can start sending in asks and prompts now, and they'll be answered at some point during Intermission, which may last a month or two while I prepare the first several chapters of Act Two. 
> 
> I hope that the conclusion to this arc, such as it is, ends up being understandable and as much as anyone could've hoped for. I worked hard on it, but all my writing ends up back in Faerie, and I'm not entirely sure if it makes sense here. It just refuses to leave again.


	10. In which it is showtime.

Maxwell let the roar of the crowd wash over him, filtering into so much white noise. A click of a remote in his pocket and a spotlight came on. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

The crowd was confused at his presence onstage, without the usual hosts, but seemed receptive, so Maxwell smiled.

He didn’t bother with the introductions—Willow’s sweet formalities, Wolfgang’s showmanship, Woodie’s down-home charm. Each of them bringing something of their own to the show, solely theirs.

_Dear friends…._

_They will hate you if this works._

_It will be worth it._

“Picture this.” There was no microphone. He didn’t need one. “You have managed to ruin everything. Your loved ones are in danger. The world is burning. All hope is lost—you spend years on the edge of despair, nearly sent over every night.

“And then you learn you can fix this. You can make it right, at a cost. What price would you be willing to pay?”

The lights flared briefly, one after another running up the walls. Maxwell tilted his head and widened his smile as shadows crept up behind him.

“Welcome to the Final Act.”

-M-

“There’s no way we can get in there without him seeing us!”

“What would you even do in there? Tackle him and steal the book?”

“Have you got a better plan?”

The triplets raced down the aisle of the old theatre. Webber jabbed his finger at the elevator button as soon as they reached it.

Wendy hissed, eyes narrowing. “No, but—the booth!”

“The what?”

“Wix’s room connects to the technical booth. The catwalk goes above the stage.”

Webber grinned. “Wendy, you’re a—wait, Wix keeps his door locked.”

 _Not for me_ , said Abigail.

The three dove and floated into the lift as it rattle-banged down. Webber slammed one hairy palm against the button. “What do we do when we’re in there?”

“We’ll figure it out.” Wendy’s mouth was set in a small line. “We’ve got to get there, then….”

 _We’ll wing it,_ Abigail suggested.

“Triplet power,” said Webber.

Wendy smiled as the lift doors opened. “Triplet power.”

Abigail was up first, zooming down the hall to Wix’s room. Wendy and Webber skidded to a halt just behind her. “Is he in there?”

Abigail briefly poked her head through the door. _No_.

“Can you get us in?”

 _Maybe._ Abigail dove through the door and Wendy and Webber began to count the seconds.

Inside Wix’s room, Abigail cast her gaze around. She couldn’t interact with the doorknobs yet, but she _had_ practiced on other things. Mostly cloths, but….

She bit her lip and rummaged a hand blindly through a locked desk drawer. After a moment, she was able to thread a handkerchief stained with oil through the top camp and carry it to the door. She draped it over the lock, grabbed both ends, and pulled it back and forth. A second later, she heard a _click_ and Wendy and Webber opened the door.

The door at the back of Wix’s room led to a stark-lit, bright white hallway. Wendy shivered.

“This isn’t like the rest of the house,” said Webber.

“No,” said Wendy. “It’s _worse_.”

The trio raced down the hall. They had to be directly above the theatre, but perhaps the odd hallway was soundproofed; they heard nothing.

The door to the booth was unlocked, and as they opened it they could hear again—Maxwell’s soft narration through the glass. Webber looked at the control panel, then slammed all his hands down palm-open, hitting dozens of buttons and switches. Nothing happened.

“He disabled it!”

 _Well, at least, something did._ Abigail cast her gaze around. _There!_

A small door to the catwalk, which led straight to a platform above the door. (Onstage, Maxwell’s shadows were darting all over the book floating in front of him.) What was more, a small pulley lift sat on the edge of the platform.

The trio opened the doro and crept onto the catwalk. A shadowy tendril drifted by; Abigail curled her hands around it until it disappeared in a puff of smoke.

“ _Vööros saina saisma pannu…”_

Halfway across. No one had yet noticed the interlopers; the audience was entranced, possibly literally, by the spell. Maxwell stood in the center of the summoning circle, the candles casting odd lights on the walls, shadows flitting in and out of their two-dimensional forms. Several had cycled around Maxwell’s legs, seeming to hold him to the stage.

“ _Vihmakene, vellekene…_ ”

The audience was swaying slightly. Wendy and Webber spilled onto the platform. _What now?_ Webber signed rapidly.

 _Anything_! Wendy signed back as she and Abigail started to fumble with the pulley system.

Below them, the spell was gaining volume. It no longer sounded like Maxwell. Above him, something shimmered; as Webber watched in astonishment, the air ripped apart, creating a swirling black void. A hole in reality, a portal, a _something bad_.

Webber climbed into the lift, gripping the ropes and bracing himself. Wendy shoved a lever forward and jumped in, grabbing Webber to steady herself.

The lift went crashing down, swinging wildly as it fell past the portal; Webber grabbed Wendy with three arms and a rope with two, swinging across the stage as the lift smashed onto the floor. Maxwell let out a cry, outraged, but the singing went on.

“What are you _doing_ here?” His voice wasn’t quite his, cracking through with the voice they’d only heard twice before, the soft British accent, thick with anger and upset. “You’re going to get hurt! You’re going to ruin _everything_!”

“You can’t do this!” Webber shrieked, his voice a multitude, releasing Wendy as they crashed to the floor. The shadows ripped along the wooden floor, spilling through the cracks as they pulled up boards, tendrils wrapping around Wendy as she cried out. Abigail dove from the catwalk, glowing with light and tearing at the creatures holding onto her sister.

Webber batted tendrils aside, making his way center stage. Between him and Maxwell, the shadows swirled menacingly in a column. They reared back.

Tall and skinny, with an overlarge head, eyes that were just glowing white circles, and enormous teeth, the monster above Webber roared and swept down, moving like a snake or a dragon. Webber dove backwards, rolling out of the way as the thing crashed into the floor, breaking and spilling out only to reform seconds later and go for him again.

Abigail abandoned Wendy, soaring over Webber’s head and into the monster’s chest. It let out a furious noise, glowing from inside as Abigail burst back out. Her usually pale form was glowing brightly, beams of light grappling with the tendrils of shadow. Webber ducked behind the monster, glancing back at Wendy. She nodded frantically to him.

He dove for Maxwell, knocking him over. The tendrils around his legs didn’t let go, snaking up and around. His uncle’s hands were pitch black, the nails pointed, veins blackening up his arms. He snarled, grabbing Webber by the shoulders and flipping him over his head, slamming him into the wooden floor. “ _I told you to stay in your damn room!_ ”

“ _Well, we’re sure people told you not to summon monsters of the void, but sometimes these things happen!”_ Webber rolled to the side, pushing himself up on his left arms and diving at Maxwell again, yanking him away from where he was trying to get to the book.

“ _You don’t know what’s at stake here, I asked you to trust me!_ ”

“ _You’re going to kill these people!_ ”

“ _Sacrifices must be made—_ “ Maxwell batted Webber aside, only to shriek as the spider child got his hands tangled in the older man’s hair, digging sharp nails into his shoulders. Webber braced himself against the floor and slammed Maxwell back again.

“It’s not worth it!” He tore at the shadows trying to pull Maxwell up, glancing back at Wendy and Abigail. Abigail and the monster were lighting up the stage; undoubtedly all eyes were on them, their mockery of a dance. Abigail was glowing even brighter, her eyes pure white as she floated a moment above the monster, then dove back at it, pulling it down with her.

“It’s worth it!”

The portal above them was growing larger, ripping open the space around it. Webber spared another glance to Wendy.

She was fighting against the shadows, but making slow, steady movement towards the book.

He pulled Maxwell back again. “We know you feel like it is, but it isn’t! Uncle Max, please, these people don’t deserve to die!”

“Neither did Charlie or Wilson!” Maxwell howled, yanking at one of Webber’s antennae. Webber cried out and ducked away, then dove at Maxwell’s legs, sending him crashing back to the stage. “No one deserves to die for my mistakes but _especially not them_!”

The noise of the stage was overwhelming—the song of the shadows, the beast’s roars, the portal making a noise like gale force winds. No one but Webber noticed as Wendy pushed off another shadow and grabbed the book out of midair.

They all noticed after, the shadow creatures all turning to face her and Maxwell following their gaze. “Wendy! Don’t do this!”

Wendy clutched the book to her chest, hair blowing in the wind of the portal. Whatever the force was, it was lifting her off the ground slightly, spiraling slowly towards the hole in reality. “You can’t do this.”

“I have to do this—please, Wendy!”

Wendy forced the book open, her hair swirling around her as she was sent into the air with no control over her own movements, tumbling in front of the portal. Webber pulled off of Maxwell and raced over, grabbing Wendy’s leg with two arms and bracing himself against the stage with the rest, grabbing onto the broken floorboards.

Wendy began to sing, voice forming a counterpoint to the shadowy chorus. Abigail was burning brighter beside them, the monster being forced back into the tendrils it was slowly, pieces breaking off.

“ _Wendy!”_ Maxwell howled, struggling towards the triplets.

The portal ripped further open—

And something flung out.

Something person-shaped, moving very fast, threw itself through the portal and crash-landed on the boards. Whatever it was was wrapped in layers and nearly unrecognizable.

Wendy sang out. The shadows fell into chaos, song breaking into indecipherable screaming.

The portal sucked in on itself—Wendy was pulled closer, but Webber reached up with another hand, yanking her down. The monster broke into hundreds of pieces of shadows, rippling back through the boards and into the ground, crackling with light. Abigail hovered in midair for a moment, then fell, her light dimming as the hairbow clattered to the stage floor. Webber reached out and caught it from falling through a crack at the last second.

Wendy went crashing down on top of him as the portal sucked in one last time and closed, the air sealing itself back up. The shadows disappeared into the torn stage floor.

Webber cradled his sister in one set of arms, Abigail’s hairbow tucked close to his chest. Maxwell pushed himself up, bruised and bloody, and made his way over to the bundle that had fallen through the portal.

He pulled aside one layer of fabric, then let out a sound like a wounded animal and fell to his knees again.

Webber didn’t bother moving. He could see from where he was the somewhat familiar face underneath the layers. Older (by about seven years); missing an eye, if the makeshift patch wrapped around it was any indication. Stubbly and badly-shaven, hair a nest of tangles and knots, an infected-looking stitched-up cut stretching along his face.

Webber didn’t bother moving. There was no point to it. Nothing he could do would take Maxwell’s attention off Wilson Higgsbury in his arms as he sobbed like his heart would break.

 

_END ACT ONE_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiatus time.
> 
> We'll be back in a month or two when the buffer has been rebuilt. Until then, check the upcoming "Intermission" chapter or follow heirstothecarterlegacy for bonus content and stories, including hopefully an animatic. 
> 
> Feel free to send prompts to the blog!


	11. Intermission

It is, objectively, kind of a shitty house.

You _sort of_ knew that would be the case before you moved in. After all, it hadn’t been inhabited since the fifties, and hadn’t had a caretaker since the seventies. But nothing could have prepared you for just how bad it was. A monstrosity of a place, a Frankenstein’s monster of a house, cobbled together over time, multiple additions jutting off what would have been a perfectly respectable Victorian mansion, including what looks like an enormous domed amphitheater.

The three of you stare up at it, at the horrendously dirty windows, the falling-down walls, the mismatched tiles that aren’t even trying to pretend to still be a roof. The shutters are hanging off the sides; ivy and vines grow up and down the bricks and siding, some of it looking poisonous (but she’s the expert on that). The moving truck behind you now seems woefully inadequate. This is going to take more work than you thought.

“I like it,” she says, breaking the silence.

“It’s terrible,” he says right back.

You don’t say anything, drifting up to the front porch. The stairs creak and crack under your feet, the wood splintering. Your foot almost goes directly through the wood, and you pull back just in time for the rotting boards to reveal a gaping black maw. You grimace.

“It needs doing,” she is saying behind you. “But with a bit of work!”

“I’m pretty sure the best thing for this place would be to destroy it.”

You push the door open. It’s technically locked, but the lock is rusted straight through and disintegrates as you move the door. There’s an overdramatic _cre-eak_ as it swings into the foyer, dark and dusty and cobwebby.

You step inside, over the musty and moldy carpets. The doors to the amphitheater were clearly once quite impressive; the other set of doors, you imagine, must be to the hallway. There’s a vase of flowers thirty years dead, the remaining dregs of water scummy and the glass covered in mold and broken at the top; the roses have long since dried up, draping over the edges of the vase. A spider scuttles across the floor. From the ceiling hangs an elaborate chandelier, crystal and glass and brass, which is hosting a veritable hotel of spiderwebs. There is a hole in the ceiling.

Behind you, you can distantly hear the other two arguing still. He’s abandoned his suitcase in favor of wild gestures; she’s sitting primly on top of hers. They haven’t even noticed you’ve left yet, though they will in a few moments certainly.

You look once again around the lobby, the dark paneled walls, the two sets of double doors, the enormous windows to either side of the entrance. Clearly, at one point, this place was beautiful, grand, even for the psychotic architect who designed the additions.

You step back out onto the porch and clear your throat. The two of them look up at you, finally.

“It’s awful,” he says. “Tell her it’s awful.”

“I think it’s nice,” she says.

You wait for them to be quiet, smiling a little, then spread your hands. “Nothing in life is worth it if it doesn’t involve some work.”

She lets out a whoop, ruffling his hair. “Toldja!”

“That said,” you continue, “it’s not going to be easy. It’s going to be uncomfortable, and occasionally disgusting, and involve sleeping on mattresses in sleeping bags on the floors that aren’t going to fall in on our weight. It will involve a lot of noise and contractors, and endless renovations. But when it is done, imagine.”

You all sit there for a moment, imagining. He shakes his head, but her eyes are full of stars.

“This place,” you finish with your usual sense of flourish and style, “will become an icon.”

“An _icon_ ,” she repeats. You can practically see hearts in her pupils, as if it’s a cartoon.

You smile at them. “An icon. Now come. Let’s see if there’s anywhere that isn’t going to collapse at once where we can stay.”

-W-

Eight months later, the house is restored to its former glory, more or less.

Parts had to be gutted entirely and rebuilt from the shell; others required new exterior walls, new windows. The electricity had to be redone entirely, of course, as did the water systems, the new lighting for the theater, the attic floors. The enormous basement had to be partially drained of water and have new insulation installed. The plumbing was torn out and replaced. But the house is livable. And as you personally set about to restoring the old furniture and fixtures, it will become grand once again.

He jerry-rigs a doorbell; you have none, so he comes up with a system of levers and pulleys and small bells in key locations. She clears out most of the basement floor for her practice and skates ruts into the floor. You have an office in the library, with the restored fireplace and built-in shelves. It has been horrifically expensive, but that doesn’t matter. You have money. You haven’t always had money. Once, you were drastically without money, but now you have money, and you are spending your incredible inheritance on restoring the old house. It’s draining the account at a rapid pace, but you only need it for this one thing. Once you are done, you will be able to come up with your own funds. Pay for your own fate, perhaps. It’s poetic.

He’s set up in a room with the walls painted in chalkboard paint, and spends hours upon hours tinkering with his inventions and playing long-distance chess with a variety of penpals. She has her practice, of course, and has joined a league in town with her old moniker—Rose Dead is skating again, and you and him go to watch every Saturday evening. The three of you have a bed big enough for you all, and afterwards, sated and smiling, you curl up together under a pile of blankets on top of a pile of pillows.

You are preparing your show. It’s your life’s work. It’s what you’ve been preparing ever since you received your inheritance, that preposterous amount of money and one old book. It’s your legacy. The first performance, you think, will be called _Eventide—_ or perhaps you should start with _Daybreak_? Months, maybe years, doing six story performances—and then, your greatest achievement, the _Nightmare_ show, the one you’ve known you must do since you got the book. She’s excited to assist you, he’s excited to work the technical side.

And so, finally, you head into town and pin a flyer to a board.

_CYCLUM HOUSE CABARET_

_PERFORMING FRIDAY/SATURDAY/SUNDAY NIGHTS STARTING DECEMBER 22_

You have other performers, of course. Your own show will be once weekly, the Friday night show. Over time your performers will grow in quality, you are certain; as word gets out, things will become more and more….amazing.

You smile, and head back home to your husband and your wife. The next few years are going to be nothing but up.

(You aren’t actually wrong about that.) 

_Safe in the Dark will return on Friday, December 1._

 

 

__

__


	12. Act II, Chapter 11-- In which Wilson returns from seven-year vacation to H E L L I S L A N D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A changeover time.

The moments immediately following Wilson P. Higgsbury falling from the dangerous sky portal and landing with a _thump_ on the stage were so chaotic that afterwards, Webber was hard-pressed to remember the exact order of events. But in some form or another, the following occurred:

The remaining residents flooded in the no-longer-blocked doors of the theatre, forcing the audience out. As that was going on, Wolfgang broke off and climbed onto the stage, scooping Wendy into one arm, cradled, and lifting Webber with the other. Webber clambered over and clung to him, the hairbow safely clenched in one hand.

With the confused, dazed audience moving to the doors like herding cats, Willow made her way up, crouching next to Maxwell. Webber could hear her faintly, a hand rested on Maxwell’s shoulder as he curled around the smaller man, a tangle of long limbs. “Hey, Maxy, let’s just….we can get you back to your room, a’ight? You don’t have to let him go till we get there. You don’t even have to let him go.”

Wolfgang carried them through the surging audience. If Wendy were awake, she’d have wanted to hear the rest. But Wendy wasn’t awake. Webber clung to Wolfgang, one lower arm reached out to rest on Wendy, feel her sluggish breathing.

And with scarcely a memory of the time in between, the twins were in Wes and Wolfgang’s room, being deposited onto the bed. Wendy shifted slightly, but still didn’t wake; Webber gently pinned the bow in her pigtails and tugged a blanket over her.

“Is she okay?” he asked.

“Lil Wendy bird fine.” Wolfgang’s voice was a comfortable rumble. “She need to sleep.”

“Oh. Okay. What about Uncle Max?”

Wolfgang hesitated. “I will see. Wait here.”  
He shut the door behind him.

Webber hugged a pillow, legs pulled up to his chest. In the back of his head he felt a familiar stirring. _Is it over?_

_Mmhm. Where were you?_

_Hiding._ She sounded slightly abashed—emotions, Webber had noticed, became more complex for her with time. _Where you were, the wrongplace. It frightened me._

 _Oh….that’s okay._ Webber gave her the mental equivalent of a pat on the head and smiled to himself at her indignant noise. _Just lemme know next time? We’re in this together._

 _Very well._ His passenger settled into her corner. _Is the sister alright?_

_She’s fine, yeah._

The door opened. Wes entered and smiled, signing at Webber. Without his makeup, he looked tired—more than tired. _“Webber. Maxwell is fine. He and his—“_ Wes hesitated, then made a sign Webber hadn’t seen before, fingerspelled L-O-V-E-R, and made the sign again. Webber nodded. “ _Are in his room. He wouldn’t call for a doctor, so Wickerbottom is taking care of them.”_

 _“Can I see them?”_ Webber signed hesitantly.

“ _If you wish. I can watch Wendy if you want._ ”

“ _Thank you.”_ Webber smiled and rolled off the bed. Wes perched on the edge, next to Wendy. When Webber was satisfied he wouldn’t amscray, he darted off into the halls of Cyclum House.

The door to Maxwell’s bedroom was slightly ajar and Webber hesitantly slipped through. Inside, Wilson was laid out on the bed with closed eyes, the bandages he’d worn being replaced by Wickerbottom with Willow acting as a nurse. Maxwell sat against the headboard, Wilson’s head partially in his lap, stroking the unconscious man’s hair.

“….Hey, Uncle Maxwell,” Webber said, hating how small his voice sounded.

Maxwell’s eyes snapped up. He looked tired. “Webster.”

“Webber.”

“Webber.” He exhaled slowly, gaze flitting back down to Wilson. “…I suppose explainations are in order.”

“No. Wendy and I mostly had it figured out.” Webber shifted, tugging an antenna. “We found the weird door in the basement.”

“….Oh.” Maxwell’s hand stilled a moment. “…Apologies, then?”

“I think that’s a start.”

“I agree,” said Willow from her place at the dresser, rinsing washcloths in a ceramic basin. “And maybe some explaining would be good for those of us who aren’t Encyclopedia fucking Brown.”

“Language,” admonished Wickerbottom. Willow scowled.

Maxwell closed his eyes, carding his hand through Wilson’s tangled mop of hair. “Once Wendy and Wilson wake up, I’ll explain everything, I swear it. But we need to make sure they’re safe.”

“Wendy’s fine,” said Webber tightly.

“Wilson’s not.”

Wickerbottom clucked, wrapping a cleaned out cut on Wilson’s hand and passing the bloodstained, alcoholic rag to Willow, who dunked it in the basin. “In my distinctively non-professional opinion, he’ll live. But he has to go t a hospital.”

“No!” Maxwell froze as Wilson flinched in his lap. “No,” he repeated, quieter this time. “I’ll explain later. But even you must see that reopening a seven-year-old missing persons case would draw unwanted attention.”

“Maxwell, I don’t think you understand. He’s missing an eye. Most of these cuts are badly infected. I’ve done what I can, but a standard first aid kit can’t deal with this. Where has he _been_?”

“I told you, I’ll explain.” Maxwell tucked Wilson up further in the blanket as the battered man whimpered softly, curling inward. “Just….thank you, Eleanora. Willow. I’ll call a house meeting when it’s time.”

“You fuckin’ better, old man,” said Willow. Wickerbottom didn’t even bother trying to chastise her this time, instead nodding in agreement.

The two women stepped out of the room, taking the cloudy basin and rags with them.

Webber sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed. “…That’s Wilson?”

“Mmhm.”

“He was in that place, behind the door.” Webber looked at his uncle, who didn’t answer. Just as Watcher before, it was enough of an answer. “So was Charlie?”

“….Yes.” His voice was hoarse.

“So where’s she?”

“I don’t know.” He ran his fingers through Wilson’s hair. “I…don’t know why she didn’t come back with him. She should have. Unless they got separated.”

“Oh.” Webber fidgeted, one arm idly twisting the quilt between his fingers. “…how are you gonna take care of him if he needs a hospital?”

“I have my resources. We can do it here, if needs must. And needs must.” Maxwell sighed. “How did you and your sister find the door?”

“We found the cellar a while ago.” Webber flitted his eyes down at the quilt, tugging at it with sharp nails. “You know that, yeah? It’s where….” He indicated the antennae, extra limbs, and fur covering himself.

“Indeed. A bit difficult to forget.”

“Well, when you were so sudden with not lettin’ us see your show, we got…curious. An’ we thought that the best place to check would be the cellar, so me’n Wendy went down, an’ we found the secret passage, and we went through and met….her.”

Maxwell blinked. “Her?”

“Yeah. The lady with the cloak and the hair all—“ Webber moved his fingers around his head. “Watcher. Wendy called her Watcher. She explained some of it to us, and we got some of it ourselves. That you wanted to summon them, and that the audience was a sacrifice. Like us for—for—“ He sighed. “For Abigail.”

“…So that’s what you were doing.” Maxwell looked as if something he’d been wondering about was finally revealed. “I was wondering about that. You summoned something, but nothing had manifested.”

“We kinda wanted her to be a secret. But you saw her tonight.”

“That was Abigail, hm? Strong girl.”

“Yeah, she’s pretty great. You can meet her later.”

“That sounds nice.” Maxwell gave him a smile. “You two are perceptive. I should have known that you’d manage to find it out. I…wasn’t expecting this outcome, though.”

“We don’t think anyone was expecting this, Uncle Max.”

“No. I suppose not.”

The two fell silent, staring at the man in Maxwell’s lap.

“…So what do we do now?”

“I have no idea.”

 

-M-

 

When Webber returned to Wolfgang’s room, Wes was still sitting on the bed. Wendy had woken up and was engaged in a conversation in sign. From what Webber could catch, Wes was filling her in on what had happened while she was performing the spell and unconscious.

“Hey, Wendy.”

Wendy looked up. “Webber, you’re alright.”

“We’re fine.” He smiled at her, but it was a little difficult to find his usual level of sunshine. “It’s….fine.”

“Mm.” She signed at Wes, and he smiled and nodded, exiting the room. Wendy set the hairbow down on the bed. “She did a good job.”

“She always did a good job protecting us. She’ll be back, right?”

“I hope so.” Wendy traced a circle around the hairbow. “Mr. Higgsbury is back?”

“Uh-huh. He’s with Maxwell. Ms. Wickerbottom said he needed a hospital but Uncle Max won’t take him to one.”

“And what about Ms. Charlie?”

“She didn’t come through. Uncle Max doesn’t know why. Maybe Wilson will, when he wakes up.”

“Maybe.” Wendy looked at Webber. “…There is much we still don’t know. I think we shall have quite the mystery to investigate.”

“Mystery triplets.”

“Mystery triplets.”

They put their hands together, Webber’s furry upper-left palm resting on top of Wendy’s pale right. After a moment, Webber grabbed the hairbow and put it on top, getting a smile from his sister.

“Hey, we didn’t do so bad this time. This’ll be solved like _that.”_ Webber nodded decisively.

“…Yeah. Like that.”

 

-ELSEWHERE-

 

Renee sat on the swing, tracing at the ground with her feet. Beside her, Watcher floated over one of the seats, staring at her.

 **They have succeeded.** No response. **I know you were curious for them.**

“…killed me.” Renee’s voice was barely a whisper, as it usually was when she managed to talk.

**_They_ ** **killed you. Not the triplets. It was a mistake. You have always known that.**

“…grinnin’ man said the queenie’s out again.”

If Watcher had a face, they would be frowning. **Andrew said that?**

“…mmhm.” Renee seemed strained.

**Did he say anything else?**

“….nuh-uh.”

Watcher melted into the tree slightly, still watching Renee. The faction leaders, of course, knew very little. But Watcher knew even less, only what they observed. If the Grinning Man had said that the queen was out and about, that did not bode well for anything.

When a rotting No-Eyed Deer came through the woods and Renee took hold of its antlers, Watcher melted fully into the dark place between. Perhaps a dream-walk would be a good idea. Gather some information. Perhaps they could try spying on **them** again. It was always a risk, but even Watcher could tell, through the haze of apathy, that something big was coming for the Carters.

They were the most interesting people they had watched in a long time. Perhaps they would figure it out on their own. Or perhaps Watcher could visit Wendy again, help how they could. Or perhaps….or perhaps….

or p er haps

o r p e r h a p s

 

watcher disappeared into the darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually try to keep this brief, but with the start of Act II we have some important notes, changes, and other suchlike. So.
> 
> 1\. This act will be longer than Act II. I intend to really explore the lore and the characters past the triplets, and ultimately set up for Act III.
> 
> 2\. Related, we will probably deviate from the triplet's PoV to visit some of the other Cyclum House residents and learn their stories. Feel free to comment if you're particularly curious about anyone.
> 
> 3\. ALSO: If anything from the climax of Act I confused you, comment below! If I get no comments, Maxwell's explanation will simply be glossed over, but if something was confusing (I know all the lore, and I frequently forget not everyone knows what I'm doing at all times here) let me know and I'll have him bring it up while explaining to the other housemates.
> 
> 4\. Any interest in a playlist?
> 
> Comments are love, comments are life. Welcome to Act II!


	13. Chapter 12—In which we have guests, dear, how exciting!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery begins, and we introduce another new player.

When it became clear that Wilson wasn’t going to wake up anytime soon and Maxwell wouldn’t move from his side if the damn house caught fire, the Cyclum residents slowly congregated in the master bedroom. Willow and Wes sat on the desk, Willow with legs crossed and Wes perched like a model; Wigfrid turned the overly fancy chair around and straddled it. Wolfgang leaned against a bedpost, Wix glowered at everyone from the wall with his sunglasses pushed up his nose, Wickerbottom stood primly by the head of the bed, and Wendy and Webber settled at the foot, Wendy with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, Webber with a large mouse spider exploring his middle left arm.

The triplets tuned out most of the explanation. It was nothing they hadn’t figured out for themselves. The Nightmare show was the same summoning spell Wendy had used on Abigail, on a larger scale; he had intended to summon Wilson and Charlie back from wherever they’d ended up, that place behind the door; the summoning had technically failed, with Wendy and Webber’s intervention, but somehow Wilson had found his own way to the portal and forced his way through from the other side. He had kept the residents from watching the show in an attempt to protect them. The audience would be fine; a little dazed and disoriented for a few days, maybe, but that would pass.

When he finished, everyone was silent for a few minutes. Maxwell lowered his head and went back to stroking Wilson’s hair slowly, the man shifting in his sleep.

Wix just left the room wordlessly, slamming the door behind him. Everyone but Wes winced slightly at the sharp sound.

“…I suppose that was what we requested, yes,” said Wickerbottom at last. “There are still….many questions I have.”

“Undoubtedly they are the same ones I do. I don’t know everything.” Maxwell’s mouth quirked up into a wry smile. “There is….much about the processes and methods between the worlds that I don’t understand.”

“It’s a dangerous game that you play,” Wickerbottom said sternly.

“I’m well aware of that.”

“Do you intend to continue doing so?”

“That depends on a few things.”

“…well.” She straightened, adjusting her tie slightly. “Thank you for that honest answer, I suppose.” And she turned on her heels, following Wix out the door.

Wolfgang was next. He didn’t say anything either, but gave Maxwell a slight smile before leaving. Wes hopped off the desk to follow, signing quickly. “ _You did what you thought was right for your lovers. I can appreciate that. There’s still much to discuss, but for now, you and yours need to rest.”_

 _“Thank you, Wes,”_ Maxwell signed back, one handed and fingerspelling. Wes nodded and followed Wolfgang out.

Willow got up and shrugged slightly. “Eh, I can’t blame ya for anything ya did. You’re still the one who took me in. Don’t go running yourself into the ground again, though. I guess this is what you were so tired about?”

“More or less.”

“Good. Get some damn rest for once. And don’t go trying to destroy the world again without telling us first.” She made for the door, then hesitated. “…Hey. If you do go and tell us first, don’t expect me to stand by. I want to know what all this is as much as anyone.” And with that, Willow smiled and left.

Wigfrid pushed the chair back. “I am with Willow.”  
“I don’t know why I expected anything different.”

Wigfrid grinned, showing off her missing tooth. “Of course we are with you, Maxwell. We owe you most of us all, yes? I do not need answers. But if you need something hit, I am there.”

When the room was cleared, Maxwell looked down at Webber and Wendy. “…And you two?”

“Teach me,” said Wendy.

“What? No.”

“Teach me!” She reached across the bedcovers, grabbing for the codex sitting on the bedside table. Maxwell lunged for it overtop Wilson and held it out of her reach. She pouted. “Teach me.”

“I…” He hesitated a second, then looked uncertain. “…that may not be such a bad idea. Let me think about it.”

“Only if the answer is yes.” Wendy sat back on her heels. Webber moved the mouse spider to his antenna.

He was about to speak up when the bedcovers shifted. All three perked up slightly, leaning in.

Wilson Higgsbury wiggled underneath the blankets, opening his single eye blearily. “…d-did it work?”

Maxwell looked ready to cry. “Yeah. Yeah, pal. It worked. You did great.”

 

-O-

 

Adjustments were made, of course. Surprisingly there weren’t too many.

Maxwell refused to let Wilson anywhere near a hospital, claiming that they needed secrecy. Wickerbottom compromised by calling in the local doctor and paying him under the table for a housecall, without disclosing Wilson’s name. With any luck he wouldn’t recognize a man eight years missing. The doctor proclaimed him stable enough that he wouldn’t require hospitalization, but gave Maxwell a long lecture about food, saline intake, and regularly changing the bandages. Wickerbottom didn’t volunteer for it, exactly, but she refused to be moved from her position as Wilson’s doctor. Willow seemed happy to play nurse.

Maxwell finally left the bedroom on the second day after the show, to take a shower and get food that wasn’t the applesauce and broth Wilson was struggling to keep down in the rare moments he was awake. Webber met him completely by accident in the kitchen, where he was sitting on the counter and peeling off bits of ham to try to appease the spider, who was grumbling about how little meat he ate.

“Hi, Uncle Max,” he said, kicking his legs against the lower cabinet.

“Hello, Webber.” He gave him a ghostlike smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes.

“How’s Mr. Higgsbury?” He tugged off a strip of serrano, rolling it up tightly and biting in with his sharp teeth.

“He’s…holding up.” Maxwell exhaled slowly, pulling out hot chocolate mix, the milk, and a pan. “Do you want any?”

“’Course.” Inside his head, the spider grumbled. He shushed her.

“Alright.”

As they waited for the milk to boil, Webber shifted slightly. “…Charlie disappeared with Wilson?”

“…yes.”

“And she wasn’t with him when he came back.”

His hand tightened around the pot. “No. No, she wasn’t.”

Wendy emerged from the porch, her hair slightly wet from the rain outside. “Are you talking about Miss Charlie?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Is that hot chocolate?”

Maxwell nodded, almost imperceptible. Wendy grinned. “Also excellent.”

There was silence for a while, then Wendy spoke again. “Do you know why only Wilson came through?”

“No.”

“Does he know?”

“…No.” But the pause was evident. Wendy and Webber exchanged a glance. “Let’s speak of something else. How have the others been holding up?”

“Wolfgang took over makin’ dinner. He makes a lot of weird Russian foods.” Webber popped the end of a ham roll into his mouth and spoke around it. “Herring and cabbage and beets.”

“Did you like any of it?” Maxwell whisked in the chocolate mix, relaxing slightly as the topic was changed.

“He made pelmeni last night. Those were pretty good.”

“Can I assume you’ve gone shopping, then?”

“Yeah. A couple of days ago.” Webber drummed the clawed fingers of his lower left arm on the counter. “We didn’t all go. Just Wickerbottom and Wolfgang and Wes.”

“Probably for the best.” He almost looked disappointed to have missed the shopping trip. “Here we go.”

A few seconds and a flask of brandy later, the three were sitting around the kitchen table with hot chocolate, Maxwell’s with a copious amount of amber liquid added to it. The silence was companionable again, almost how Wendy remembered it from the few late nights they’d run into each other before the show.

She had questions. Wilson could know where Charlie was, or why she didn’t come with him. Maybe she was dead, that would explain why Maxwell didn’t want to talk about it. The Watcher. Renee.

The card on her windowsill, thrumming each night as she slept, calling to her.

Wendy sipped her cocoa.

After a moment, Maxwell cleared his throat. “…and the others have been…” He sighed, looking rather put out to admit to anything. “The others. They have…not seemed to hold a grudge?”

“Well, Wickerbottom might. And Wix just doesn’t like anyone. But everyone is hopin’ that Mr. Wilson will get better soon.” Webber dumped another handful of marshmallows into his cup and stirred. “I don’ think they’d have been so happy if the spell had worked.”

“No, I don’t think so. Any word from town?”

“Uh-uh. But then we haven’t been.”

“I see. Well—“

They were interrupted by the sound of thunder outside, and, a moment later, the deep ring of the doorbell echoing through the house.

Wendy and Webber followed Maxwell as he headed through the cavernous halls for the front door. Through the arched windows in each room, the triplets could see lightning flash as the rain fell harder outside.

They reached the foyer, Maxwell padding across the creaky floor. He threw open the door.

Leaning on the pillar of the porch was a woman who looked almost familiar. At least Maxwell’s age, with crow’s feet and laugh lines lit up by the light coming from inside the house. Her hair was tied back with a headband; her overalls had a large grease stain on one leg, and her arms were crossed across her chest.

“Hey, Maxy,” she said, sauntering for the door, moving her hands to her hips.

Max’s mouth tightened. “Hello, Winona.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha! 
> 
> Alright, I promise that I intended to add her since her announcement. this was Planned folks.
> 
> Sorry for another shorter chapter and a day late, but now we get to do something fun! This arc, I'd like to explore each of the Cyclum House residents. So here's the deal: Each resident has a power of some sort and a backstory, fully fleshed out, and all that will come into play later. If there's a resident you want to see from the perspective of particularly, leave a comment below and it will probably influence when they get their reveals!
> 
> Playlist will be up on the tumblr soon--that's heirstothecarterlegacy or come follow me personally at changelingirl . 
> 
> (NSFW side note. If I theoretically wrote some early-2000s-OT3 smut, any interest?)


	14. Chapter 13—In which we hand over the reins to the greatest mind MIT never knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. I hope that the next chapter won't be at all late, but no promises at this point. Some stuff's going on.

Wigfrid didn’t even bother knocking or checking the lock. She just kicked the door in. “FINALLY!”

Wix jolted, smashing his head against the shelf above him and cursing wildly. “Wigfrid, what the fuck!”

She strode in with a purpose, slamming the door behind herself. “Finally, my friend! It has been so long and fucking finally something that is worth watching happens!”

“ _What_ is going on?”

“Come along, come downstairs!” She lunged forward as if to grab him by the hand, thought better of it, and just headed out the door. “You’ll wish to see this!”

Wix looked at the shelf, which had fallen half off the wall and dumped a stack of calculus textbooks onto the desk and wiped some of the chalk off the wall. He cursed again, softer. If it was above the desk it was probably important, but he also didn’t really feel like dealing with the headache that came with backtracking his thought process to redo an equation or a drawing.

After a moment, he followed Wigfrid downstairs.

She led him at an annoying speed through the foyer, down the long hallway separating the living space of Cyclum House from the public spaces, and into the foyer. Surprisingly for the rambunctious woman, though, she slowed down as she approached the group crowded around the door to the entrance hall, cracked open a touch.

“Anything new?” she whispered as the two approached. Wolfgang looked up and shook his head.

“Just some new an’ creative insultings.”

“Oh, cool.”

Wix joined her and the others at the door, his curiosity getting the better of him. He gently pushed aside Willow to get a peek at the entrance hall.

Wendy, Webber, and the ghost girl were standing in the front doorway (well, the ghost girl was sitting in her hairbow)w, shuffling their feet and looking rather as if they’d prefer to be anywhere else. Their exits, aside from the front door, were blocked by Maxwell and a woman, who were screaming obscenities at each other at the top of their lungs.

Wix had never seen that woman before in his life. He took stock. Short, dark, curly hair tied back with a red headband. Oil-stained overalls—that was his kind of person. A toolbox and suitcase were set against the door with Wendy and Webber.

“YOU MOTHERFUCKING BASTARDATED SONOFA—“

“IF I’VE SAID IT ONCE I’VE SAID IT TEN TIMES, ARE YOU AN IDIOT, SHE’S NOT _HERE_ —“

“What,” Wix said after a moment, finding his voice, “what is going on?”

“She showed up like ten minutes ago,” said Willow quietly, trying not to alert the two in the hall to their presence. Webber shot them all a desperate look, but she ignored it. “They got into it almost immediately. Just started shouting.”

“What about?”

“Dunno. It’s mostly been loads of creative curses and only a few actual references to someone not being here. Which is weird, cause I think we’ve had half the population of Oregon through this house at one point or another.”

Wix took a closer look at the woman. Dark, curly hair—and a somewhat familiar face, though he had only ever seen the other in pictures. Someone else had had a face like that, with wide, almond eyes, defined cheekbones, a pert mouth.

And with Higgsbury upstairs, well.

“Think I might know who that is,” he muttered. The others at the door—taking stock, he noticed that everyone but Wickerbottom was there, and if he had to guess she either didn’t know or had tried to stop them—all looked at him with some amount of surprise. “What? She looks like Carter’s wife.”

“I—you think that’s Charlie?” Willow did a double take, looked in, and looked back at him. “Nah, it can’t be, we’ve seen her in pictures. And if she was, why would she come back now?”

“No, not exactly like her, just—I think she’s related.”

“….oh. That’s pretty smart.”

“I went to MIT, you little—“

“Shh, shh!”

The woman and Maxwell had calmed down somewhat, and were glaring at each other fierce enough to melt Wix’s prosthetic arm. Maxwell was breathing heavily. She had her hands on her hips. “Well, Maxy, aren’t you going to invite me inside?” Her voice was accented. Brooklyn, maybe. Or Jersey.

“You’re already inside.”

“Is that any way to treat a guest?” She marched over to the door and grabbed her bag and toolbox. “I’ll be staying here.”

“Winona, we _just_ —“

“No just anything. I got out my anger, you got out yours, I think that was productive all around, yeah? But you can say whatever you want about her not being here. Higgsbury’s back. There’s a chance.” And with that, the woman, Winona, stormed over to the door and pulled it open—revealing the deer-in-headlights looks of the half dozen Cyclum residents behind it. “…scuse me, coming through!”

Maxwell put his head in his hands.

 

~M~

 

The arrival of Winona threw off every calculation Wix had made. It was frustrating as hell. He’d just redone all of them, too, in the months following the arrival of the twins and their ghost sister.

In the corner of his vision, something flickered. He finished the sketch he had done on the back wall and turned to watch it.

It was her again—the woman. As near as he could tell she was the only female among them. She stared at him, unblinking, from the corner; Wix stared right back.

After a moment, she disappeared.

Wix thought for a second, then moved to the wall closest to the fireplace and pulled aside a curtain. He added a tally mark next to FEMALE, and one next to DEAD SISTER—though maybe Dead Sister should be taken off the list, everyone else had seemed to see her at the performance the other night. It was difficult to tell sometimes. He’d long since learned to err on the side of caution.

Spread out on his desk were the red-ink colored, dog-eared pages of his thesis from MIT. The one that got him kicked out. The one that sent him to Clockworks, searching for answers. The one he was going to find the ultimate answer within.

The cards pinned to the walls. The old letters from Higgsbury kept in the desk. The arrival of Winona—she was related to the Carter woman, he was certain. It was coming together at last, and soon everyone would see the truth he’d known the whole time.

 

~W~

 

_October 2007_

The house was so cold.

It had been cold before. Probably. You’d never noticed that—how cold it was. The life and laughter in it had warmed it up. Others in your bed had warmed it up.

You have three comforters and have gathered nineteen pillows from around the house and it is still cold at night. You wear your coat around the house as you wander aimlessly.

If only the world had a single neck….

The rose garden is growing over. You’d tried to keep it pruned at first, sure that she’d be back any day to chew you out over not keeping it neat. Slowly you’ve given up. Maybe not so slowly. The vines are encroaching, taking over the benches and archways. She’d always kept it so clean. It’s harder than it looks.

There are stirrings in town whenever you go out, and someone will start up the rumor again that your shows will resume soon. You don’t go out all that often anymore, going without eating for days at a time, staring at the wall blankly.

The bathroom has a razor that isn’t used and hair products that are gathering dust. You sit on the shower floor and let the water sluice over your hair and stare at the wall.

You’re supposed to go visit your brother for Christmas.

You probably can’t do that.

Your world has a single neck and it is yours—but you can’t seem to gather the courage to do it. Staring at the razor, eyes empty, thinking, thinking.

The doorbell rings.

You startle, nearly knocking your head against the tile wall. It’s been months since you’ve heard that familiar ding, sharp and unforgiving where it once had been cheerful and strange.

The doorbell rings again.

You turn off the shower and throw on your robe and sweatpants, padding down the hall, and then down another hall. You throw open the door and stare out onto the porch. “…Who are you?”

The man on the porch raises his eyebrows. He’s tall and dark and wears aviator shades and a black T-shirt, and one of his arms is a shiny metal prosthetic. “I’m looking for Wilson Higgsbury. Know him?”

“…He no longer lives here.” Your voice is rusty from disuse. You hadn’t realized how long it’d been since you’d last spoken.

You try to shut the door, only for the man on the porch to block it with his arm. “Where can I find him?”

“You can’t. He’s gone.” You tug on the door. “Would you move?”

“Nope. Where is he?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m Wix Xavier. I’m his long distance chess partner.”

“Why do you need him now?”

“I got kicked out of MIT for my theories on alternate reality and he’s the closest thing I have to a friend.” The statement is remarkably casual.

You remember, vaguely, Wilson receiving letters from Massachusetts, complaining to her about how _mean_ his chess partner was whenever he won. “…He mentioned you.”

“So you did know him!”

“Yes. I know him—knew him.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Go away.”

“Nah.” Wix keeps his arm between the door and the frame, grinning widely. It’s infuriating. “I haven’t got anywhere else to go.”

“Then go find somewhere else. I’m not in the habit of letting in strangers.”

“Better get used to it. I’m coming in anyway.” He grabs the doorknob with his real hand and uses his prosthetic as a lever to wrench it open. “Who are you, anyway? Creepy place. I can see Higgsbury here, yeah.”

You sigh in reply. “You’re not going away, are you?”

“I don’t intend to, no.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, I think, is Wes's perspective. We're going to be going through everyone over the next couple of chapters, but maybe not all at once--we might go back to the triplets a time or two. Got a lot of ground to cover in Act II.
> 
> First person to go to the tumblr and correctly identify Wix’s power (and the powers in the upcoming chapters) gets....a thing of their choice. An art? A bonus scene? A spoiler, if you’re off anon? Get to it!


	15. Chapter 14—In which things calm down, and Wendy makes people uncomfortable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the continued delays, family issues. I'm trying to create a backlog of chapters, but it's still slow going.

Wilson woke up and stayed awake on the third of November, the day after Winona moved into the spare bed in Wickerbottom’s tiny room. (The other solution, that Wix didn’t yet have a roommate, was vetoed instantly and unanimously, and Woodie declared impropriety on her moving in with him. He stoutly ignored as everyone stared at Wolfgang and Wes, then Willow and Wigfrid.) Wilson, of course, stayed in Maxwell’s room.

 

Wilson was a nervous slip of a thing, flitting around the house in the days after his waking. Wendy tried several times in the first couple of days to corner him alone, only for him to escape via some passage she hadn’t known existed. She was learning a lot with him around, even without talking to him, but it wasn’t quite what she was looking for.

 

(She and Webber noted all the passages anyway, shoving handmade maps under their mattresses. Well, under Wendy’s mattress. She didn’t let them put anything under Webber’s, which was made of spider silk and full of eggs and just a general level of grossness that she barely tolerated in her room and did not want touching anything she might touch.)

 

Winona, on the other hand, was as exuberant as Wigfrid and Wolfgang, more motherly than anyone in the house (Wickerbottom was really grandmotherly, all things considered, and acted more like a _guardian_ than a _parent,_ which was an important distinction), and had taken it upon herself to make up for Maxwell’s perceived failings in raising children. If Wendy was being fair they were in fact actual failings. Maxwell had many things going for him. Those things did not include “raising children” and “not raising eldritch monsters”. She had herded the wayward crazies of the house into the homeschooling lessons they had originally been assigned, much to the children’s dismay, and wouldn’t let them get away with busywork assignments and spending their days as they pleased. They got the feeling that the adults didn’t enjoy it too much, either, but were more willing to give up an hour to the education of the youth than Wendy and Webber were to giving up every weekday.

 

Between the classes in sign language and physical education and history and mathematics and classical literature and grammar, nightly dinner (which Wilson and Maxwell did not attend, but which someone was still setting out three glasses of red wine at every night), and Winona’s other parenting endeavours, Wendy didn’t get a chance to properly set a trap for Wilson for an entire week. But for their first day off since Winona arrived, the first Saturday since the Saturday of Nightmare, she and Webber were freed from the constraints of faux-society for the day.

 

Webber used this opportunity to go set up a spider colony in the basement, to the dismay of everyone else.

 

“I’m not going down there anymore,” Willow said when he explained his plan happily. “I’m—I’m just not doing it. I never did before but I’m not now. You are now the official librarian for the basement, got it? Trust me, Maxwell is gonna make you go get everything now, he won’t set a damn foot down there.”

 

“They’re endangered,” he protested, cupping a hand around the weird pinkish spider he was relocating.

 

“Don’t care. I don’t like them.” She shuddered dramatically.

  
Webber peered at the spider in his hands. “Don’t worry. We understand you.”

 

And he flounced off to the basement to do whatever it was Webbers did with their spiders.

 

“So how’re you spending the day, Wednesday?” Willow asked, rounding on Wendy.

 

Wendy stared. “It’s Saturday.”

 

“I know, I—never mind, we’re watching the Addams Family, I’ll get ‘Nona to make it an assignment if I have to. What’re you doing today?”

 

“Trapping Wilson Higgsbury.”

 

“Hell yeah. Go nerd baiting.” She high-fived Wendy. “I’ll leave ch’be then.”

 

So Wendy got some sort of permission to set a trap for Wilson P. Higgsbury. Of course, any of the other adults—any of them at all, if she was being honest, even Wix—would probably postulate that Willow’s word was not worth a damn thing, but she was counting it until stopped.

 

She staked out the kitchen.

 

People had to eat, after all.

 

After two boring hours crouching in the dumbwaiter, her patience paid off. Wilson slipped in through the library door, making his way over to the fridge, where he’d been keeping a variety of disgusting-looking experiments in glass jars with formaldehyde.

 

Wendy slipped out of the dumbwaiter quietly and moved into her chosen position on the kitchen table, conveniently keeping someone standing at the fridge from reaching either the garden door or the library door without passing her. Wilson, who jumped at small noises, didn’t react at all, which Wendy couldn’t help but take some pride in. Finally, she cleared her throat. “Hello, Mr. Higgsbury.”

 

Wilson jumped a good foot in the air, the jar of pig’s eyes he was holding flying up. He dove down, barely catching it before it smashed against the ground and avoiding disaster. Wendy’s eyes widened. “Nice reflexes.”

 

“I—wh-what?”

 

“That was a nice catch.”

 

“….thank you?”

 

“You’re welcome.” She smiled a little. Wilson edged backwards nervously, putting the pig eyes back in the fridge.

 

“…you’re…Wendy, right?”

 

“Indeed. And you’re Wilson P. Higgsbury. What’s the P stand for?”

 

“….it doesn’t matter. Wh-why are you here? How did you get in here?”

 

“I was in the dumbwaiter.”

 

“Th-that’s really creepy.”

 

“Thank you.” Another smile. Wilson had more or less pressed himself against the back wall of the kitchen, looking for an out nervously. Her smile dropped. He was entirely more scared than she had been aiming for. “…it’s fine, Mr. Higgsbury. I just wanted to meet you.”

 

“…oh.” He relaxed, his shoulders lowering just a touch. “It’s, er, very nice to meet you, Wendy. May I go?”

 

“I had a question actually. A few questions. Me and Webber have been to the place you were. What did you call it?”

 

His gaze was shifty, his single eye refusing to meet her two. “…The Other Place. Ch—some people called it the Constant.”

 

“Some people?”

 

“The others. The, other factions. The ones that could, could talk, at least.”

 

“Like Watcher?”

 

“Watcher?” His confusion was genuine, Wendy could tell. “I…didn’t know a Watcher.”

 

“How about Renee?”

 

“You know Renee?”

 

“Mmhm.” She nodded. “You know her?”

 

“…yes. Sweet girl. Her, er, caretaker, wasn’t as bad as the, the other ones. The other faction leaders.”

 

“That was Watcher?”

 

“…don’t know. Never heard him called that. They called him the, uh, the Grinning Man?”

 

“Not Watcher, then,” Wendy mused. “Watcher was female. Ish.”

 

“Female-ish.” Wilson nodded slowly. Occasionally his gaze would lock with hers for a split second before darting back to the walls.

 

“Alright, that’s mostly what I wanted to know.” Wendy uncurled herself, dangling her legs over the edge of the table, still watching Wilson. “Oh. I almost forgot.”

 

She had, in fact, almost forgotten, the strange events of the time before Nightmare having paled in comparison to it. All mysteries that were not the immediate and direct story of Halloween had fallen to the wayside, but now she remembered another thing, something maybe connected to Nightmare and to the monochrome forest. Something that had been calling to her, subtly, before she went down the passage.

 

“Do you know Mr. Skits?”

 

His reaction was immediate and terrified. The small amount of ground she had managed to gain in their conversation was immediately gone, Wilson on his guard once more, shifting his stance so his good leg supported his weight, his eye darting from the garden door to the library door and back again. “How do you know about Skits?” Strangest of all, perhaps, his stutter, the pauses in his words, were almost completely gone.

 

Wendy considered to herself for a moment. She could be enigmatic, and probably get very little answer at all. She could tell the truth, which admittedly, probably also wouldn’t get her very far in the answers department with the way Wilson was reacting to just the mention of the strange small man’s name. She decided on truth. “We met him a little after we got to town. He gave me a card with his name on it, and said to use it when I needed to.”

 

Wilson sprung forward, startling her slightly. “You need to get rid of that card. Now. Burn it, and if it doesn’t burn, bury it out in the woods, far enough away that someone would stop you if you went out again.”

 

“I—Mr. Higgsbury, is it really that bad? He was weird, but…”

 

“Skits is dangerous!” His voice was low and urgent, closer to Wendy than he had been the entire conversation, a hand slammed down on the table next to her. “He’s not a man, not like any I’ve ever known. He’s less of a man than the denizens of the, the Other Place. He’s so, so dangerous, Wendy, and you have—you have no concept of how to deal with something like that.”

 

“I think I can handle myself! Me and Webber, we’re smart. Scrappy.”

 

“It doesn’t matter how smart and scrappy you are. Full-grown men and women fell to Skits. What chance do you have?”

 

All at once, the sudden confidence he had displayed vanished. Wilson shrunk back down, almost, yanking his palm up from the table and stepping backwards. “I—I have to go.” He turned on his heels, racing through the library door and slamming it behind him.

 

Wendy watched him go, then took the garden door out.

 

That night in their room, she and Webber sat on her bed, playing War. “Do you think Maxwell’s asked him yet?” she asked idly.

 

“Asked him what?” Webber pulled the cards towards himself.

 

“You know. The big question.”

 

“We can think of a few big questions we have for Mr. Higgsbury.”

 

“The really big one.”

 

Webber stared blankly. Wendy sighed. “Where’s Charlie, Webber?”

 

“Oh!”

 

Neither of them had any insight into Maxwell’s thought process, however, and the rest of the game passed in silence.

 

When Webber was asleep, Wendy sat up in the moonlight and reached for the card on the windowsill. Her fingers closed around the grey cardstock and she pulled it down, staring at it. MR. SKITS. SHADOW AGENCY.

 

But now there was something else. Smaller, gossamer writing below SHADOW AGENCY.

 

_Come find me._

Wendy threw it back up onto the windowsill, burrowed under the blanket, and tried not to think for the rest of the night, but sleep wouldn’t come easily.


	16. Chapter 15--In which we truly become Cyclum House Cabaret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? A chapter on time and at a reasonable hour of the day? Say it ain't so!

Willow flung open the door to the attic room and leaned in, bracing herself on the knob and the frame. “Family meeting in the kitchen!”

Wendy and Webber exchanged a long glance. Wendy sighed and put her homework on the bed. “Let’s go.”

When they reached the ground floor, everyone else was crowded into the kitchen—including, to their surprise, Wilson. Wigfrid and Willow sat on the counter, Wigfrid with her arms crossed; Wes had climbed atop the fridge, with Wolfgang leaning against the ancient contraption, half pushing it over. Wickerbottom was actually seated in an actual chair and reading a Discworld book with an over-it expression that Webber couldn’t fault her for. Maxwell himself was standing in front of the porch door in his full-length coat (which seemed slightly more sensible now that it was November, but indoors? Really?), with Wilson slumped under the window, his bad leg tucked up against himself, playing with a Rubix cube.

A split second after the triplets entered, Wix and Woodie made their way past them and sat at the table with Wickerbottom. Maxwell cleared his throat. “Is that everyone? Where’s Winona?”

Winona popped up from behind the stove, hair tied up in a kerchief and bearing a wrench. “Right here, chief.”

“…what are you doing?”

“Fixin’ the stove.”

“It was broken?”

“It was gonna explode soonish. Thank me later.” She disappeared behind the stove again. Maxwell pinched the bridge of his nose.

“...rrrright. That’s everyone. Willow, thanks for gathering them.”

“No problem, Maxy.”

“Don’t call me—“

“Nerdlord gets to call you Maxy.” She gestured towards Wilson, who looked vague and confused. Of course, that seemed to be his default state.

“When you marry me,” Maxwell said, staring with fierce annoyance at the ceiling, “you can call me Maxy.”

“I want a June wedding.”

“ANYWAY!” Maxwell crossed his arms. “I have called this meeting for a specific reason, not to discuss our marriage prospects. As we’re all aware, I host you at Cyclum rent-free. That is not going to change, but we do need to make a change. Namely, without my shows we have no source of income, and I have no intention of touching that damn book again in my life.”

“Do I have to get a job?” asked Willow. “Cause that’s not gonna work out to well for everybody.”

“I don’t have fingerprints anymore so I can’t do anything that requires a background check,” said Wix, not looking up from his phone.

“Do y’think they’d gloss over five years’o unemployment?” Woodie mused, tapping his chin.

“No. I gave that a good deal of thought. I gave a lot of thought in general to our highly unique situation here and came to a conclusion—albeit one that requires a majority vote.” Maxwell shifted, and for a split second looked almost nervous before hastily composing himself. “While billed as a cabaret, Cyclum House has long been a solo act. I seek to change that. We have a remarkable set of gifts here you may not even be aware of yet, and I think that even without my act, people would come to see it. If not enough to turn a profit, at least enough to keep us afloat, which is all we really need.”

For a moment, silence reigned in the kitchen. Maxwell tapped his foot and withdrew a small notebook from his fur coat. “Feel free to chime in. There are no bad suggestions.”

Willow raised her hand. “I want to do a burlesque.”

 “I am in favor of this,” Wigfrid said with a grin, jerking her thumb at Willow.

Maxwell stared at them for a long, long moment, then, without breaking eye contact, wrote it down on the notepad. “Anyone else?”

Woodie raised his hand tentatively. “Axes?”

“Good, good, what with axes?”

“I can juggle them?”

“Good god, man, can you really?” When Woodie nodded, Maxwell just stared at him. “Alright then!”

“Do you still sing opera, Wigfrid?” Willow asked curiously.

“I have not in many years, no, but I believe with some practice….” She looked a little nervous at the idea. Nervous, Webber decided, didn’t suit Wigfrid at all.

Maxwell nodded, furiously scribbling on his notepad.

“Wes!” Wolfgang rapped on the fridge to get his attention, and Wes looked down at them curiously. Wolfgang began to sign along to his speech. “Wes, our old act, yes?”

Wes lit up, then started signing. _Yes, of course! After all, we are the only true performers among you._ He struck a pose, then giggled soundlessly. _Wolfgang can lift over six hundred pounds, and I have trained as a mime._

“Okay, yeah, I can see that,” said Willow, signing along with her words.

Wes stuck his tongue out at her. Maxwell wrote it down. “What else, what else?”

Willow lit up. “FIRE.”

“Please be more specific!”

“C’mon, Max, fire! It’s a classic act—firebreathing, flaming hula hoops…” 

The room was so full of excited buzz, almost no one noticed Wilson’s quiet “ahem” from the corner. Or, they wouldn’t have if it weren’t for the fact that Wilson speaking was such a rarity it could silence even Wigfrid. Everyone immediately stopped talking and looked at him, which made him shrink back into the wall and look rather as if he regretted saying anything. “Er…”

He looked up at Maxwell, who nodded encouragingly. “Yes?”

“…science tricks? Chemistry tricks with fire. You can, you can hold it if you use the right materials. Or make words of fire. I could….we could do that.”

“Holy shit, science can do fire?” Willow looked like Christmas had come early.

“…of course it can, wh-where did you go to school?”

“I have a PhD, if you must know, but it’s not in science. That’s awesome! We should do a double act!” She hopped off the counter and raced over, only slowing down when Wilson cringed slightly at how quickly she was approaching him. “C’mon, it’d be great! Old fashioned fire act with modern science.”

“….not that m-modern.” 

“Excellent idea,” Maxwell said, stepping slightly in front of Wilson and motioning for Willow to back off. She did so. “Anyone else?”

Wes rapped on the top of the fridge to get their attention. _Burlesque is kind of silly, but acrobatics? Trapeze?_

“That sounds like a recipe for disaster,” said Maxwell, writing it down anyway. 

Winona popped up from behind the stove and waved a hand. “I can do some real simple trapeze stuff?”

“Now where’d a flea-bitten factory worker learn _that?_ ”

“Don’t see where it’s your business, you nightmare fetishist. But for everyone else I’ll tell ya that it was a workshop course bein’ offered cheap off Broadway. Anyway, I think I’m okay at it.” 

“Be nice, you two…” Wilson murmured, shuffling his Rubix cube. 

Webber raised a hand. Maxwell ignored him in favor of Wolfgang suggesting a barbershop quartet, then Willow attempting to get burlesque as an option again, and Wickerbottom finally looking up from her book.

“Well,” she said to the quiet of the room, “you may not intend to pick up that book again, but I do not see why I should be hindered by that. No shadow summoning, but I think you may as well know that I’ve been looking into your tricks, Maxwell, and I find I have a bit of a talent for it.” 

Maxwell looked stunned, but wrote it down, shaking his head. “You know what you’re getting yourself into?”

 “I am not a reckless young thing looking for glory,” she said sternly. “I know my limits, and I know where legends could be real. There will be no summoning of eldritch horrors of the void.’ 

“Oh, well as long as that’s the case…” 

The room became a clamor of voices. No one noticed when Wendy quietly tugged Webber out of the kitchen and into the library, shutting the door gently behind them and blocking out the noise. 

“What?” Webber asked. “We liked listening to the suggestions.” 

“He wasn’t listening to ours, though.” Wendy crossed her arms. 

“He’s probably just worried about us. After all, we messed with his stuff before and it almost went real bad.” 

“It did go real bad.”

“We don’t think so.” Wendy opened her mouth to say something and Webber held up a hand. “Hey! We’re the ones affected by it, we get a say too. And we don’t think it went too bad at all." 

_I don’t think it went ideally._

_Yeah, well, this isn’t so awful, is it?_ Webber thought to his better half as he continued with Wendy. “He’s probably just worried because it almost did." 

His sister frowned, even more than her usual resting frown. “I don’t like it. We live here too. We’re just as important as them.”

“Yeah, but they’re all adults.”

“And what, the fact that we’re the ones who saved Uncle Maxwell from his stupid mistake means nothing?” She growled slightly, one hand reaching up to toy with Abigail’s hairbow, currently resting on one of her pigtails. “We have talents too. They don’t even know the half of ours.”

“So what?”

“So we should ask about it! Make them notice us.”

“How?”

Wendy took his hand and marched them back into the kitchen, not bothering to be quiet this time. The adults looked at them curiously. “When did you leave?” Maxwell asked. 

“Just a minute ago.” She squared her shoulders. “We want an act too!”

“…Wendy, dear,” Maxwell started, “this is just preliminary, and you’re young—“

“No!” She stomped her foot. It was almost uncharacteristically juvenile of her, but if there was one thing Webber knew his sister hated, it was not being taken seriously. “We want our own act. Webber can control spiders. I can summon Abigail, and she’s a _ghost._ We’re just as important as you and we want to help!”

Maxwell looked a little startled and exchanged a quick glance with Wickerbottom, then a slightly longer glance with Winona. Wendy glared at him furiously.

“…It could be dangerous,” he tried.

“You’ve put us in danger before and that wasn’t even our choice.”

“You could get hurt.”

“It’s a cabaret show,” Webber chimed in, “it’s not like your old shows.”

 “We are adults—“

“And we’re the ones who saved you!” Wendy crossed her arms, fire in her eyes. “Just because we’re kids doesn’t mean we’re not involved in this. And if we’ve got to be involved in all the horrible things that go on at this house, we want to be involved with the cool ones too. We want our own act.”

Maxwell kept up eye contact with Wendy for a solid minute. 

Then, very slowly, he picked up the notepad and wrote it down.


	17. Chapter 16--in which November happens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which games of various sorts are played.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, bitches. Bet you'd thought you'd seen the last of me.

 

November did not bring a chill to the air; it brought a sudden cold snap, the grass on the lawn freezing over most mornings. The triplets spent the better part of a day helping Winona and Wickerbottom sort out a wide variety of plastic bins of wiinter bedding and clothing that Maxwell stored, unorganized, in the garage.

“What’s this?”

Wickerbottom looked up from the box she was labeling with a thick Sharpie to Webber. “That’s a phonograph. Haven’t you ever seen one?”

Webber shook his head, standing on his toes to look at the dusty machine on the shelf.

“Well, have you seen a record player? This is a precursor to that.” Wickerbottom reached up, grasping at the bulky object, and pulled it down. She blew off a layer of dust and brushed a cobweb aside. “Have there been any records in these boxes?”

“Not yet,” said Winona. She held up a sweater with thick orange stripes. “Look at this, ain’t it great?”

“Winona, that’s hideous,” Wickerbottom said flatly.

“I _know_!”

Webber giggled, prying open another box. A few friends scuttled out, and he extended a hand. One of the spiders scuttled up, settling in on his shoulder. He dug through the contents, spare arms making quick work of his search. Across the room, Wendy was sorting the contents of a large bin by type and size, and Abigail was checking her work.

Winona kept shooting glances at Abigail.

“I promise she isn’t the weirdest thing in this town,” said Wendy without looking up. Winona jolted, guilty.

“I—sorry,” she said. “It’s…I know I kinda came in all force-of-nature, but I never really knew what Charlie was _doin’_ up here, yanno? I wasn’t expectin’….all of this.” She made a vague, encompassing gesture. “Ghosts an’ magic an’ shit.”

“Language,” said Wickerbottom.

“We know that word already,” Wendy told her.

“Still, _someone_ in this house has to try to be a role model, and it is not Maxwell.”

“My role model is Maxwell.”

“That explains a lot about you,” Wickerbottom told Wendy.

Winona was staring at Abigail again. Abigail winked, floating over. _You can talk to me, you know. It isn’t just them._

“I—oh! Alright.” Winona ran a hand through her curls. “Er, sorry for staring. I haven’t ever really….met a dead person before?”

 _That’s alright, neither had I._ Abigail smiled. With her blank eyes she was something enigmatic—but Webber could imagine the sparkle and mischief it would have held in life. _It was kind of a shock for me._

“I bet!” Winona chuckled, folding a quilt onto the blankets pile. “I—you three aren’t here much longer’n me. How do you deal with all the…you know?”

The triplets exchanged a look, then shrugged in unison. “I always wanted that stuff to be real, when we were me,” said Webber.

“I—that too. Are you….what’s….” Winona’s expression was equal frustration and curiosity.

“It’s from when we summoned Abigail,” said Wendy quietly.

“Like an added bonus,” Webber chirped. “I’m never alone. It was weird, but we got used to it.”

“So you’re….not just part spider?”

“We’re….” Webber considered. “There’s me, Webber. And me, I didn’t have a name. We share. At first it was like talking to each other, but then it was just….us.”

Winona stared. “ _There’s literally a spider in your head?!”_

“Er, yeah.” Webber rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “She was on me—Webber—during the summoning and we got a little….mixed up? It’s really great, though! We can’t talk to all our friends, but they understand and listen to us, and this town doesn’t…really care.”

“But you can’t ever leave,” said Winona. She didn’t seem to notice Wendy’s slight distress behind her.

Webber shrugged. “Why would we need to? Everyone is here.”

-M-

They put the phonograph in the parlor-lobby, along with a set of jazz records they found buried under a box of blankets. Willow took a delight in lighting and tending to the many fireplaces in the house, carefully stoking the flames. Everyone got mothballed quilts and comforters. Wilson puttered around the house more often when he had three sweaters on, burying himself.

He avoided Wendy.

“Did you scare him?” Webber asked.

Wendy at least had the grace to look abashed. “Maybe. I was quite curious.”

“Wendy, that’s _mean._ ”

“It was informative.”  
“ _Wendy!”_

 _I wasn’t there for that, or I’d have said something,_ Abigail murmured.

“Of course you would have.” Wendy rolled her eyes. “You would have stopped me.”

 _Because you should have left him alone._ Abigail crossed her arms. _You’re awful._

“I got answers, I believe that’s more than either of you managed.” Wendy tugged her pigtails tighter, impatient. “Do you suppose Wilson will give us a class?”

“On what, running around scared all the time?”

“No, on science. No one is teaching us that yet.”

“…oh. Maybe!” Webber hummed, leaning over the banister. He grabbed the rail and clambered over, tucking up his knees and dangling upside down. “We’re Spider-Man!”

 _You’re way better than Spider-Man._ Abigail ruffled his hair. It wasn’t quite a physical touch, but it wasn’t like when she manipulated the air, either.

Wendy, stuck on the ground floor, stared up at her twins—one flying, one performing an acrobatic routine. Her hand closed around the flower hairbow in her skirt pocket and squeezed.

-M-

“What are you working on?”

Wickerbottom looked up from the sole computer in the library and lowered her half-moon glasses. After a moment, she seemed to determine that Wendy’s question was in earnest, and moved to the side so the girl could read the screen over her shoulder.

Wendy leaned forward, furrowing her brow. “…Oregon Veterans Association Service Dogs?”

“Indeed.” Wickerbottom moved back in front of the screen, pushing aside a stack of books to let Wendy drag up a chair and sit next to her. “I thought perhaps if Maxwell insists that there be no human help from the outside, we should request the assistance of a creature which will not realize the significance of Mr. Higgsbury’s return.”

“….huh.” Wendy watched in silence for a few minutes as Wickerbottom filled out an email form, clicking through pages and opening new tabs. “So are we getting a dog?”

Wickerbottom looked down at her sternly. “If we were to get a dog, this would be Mr. Higgsbury’s dog, intended to assist his recovery. It would not be for playing.”

“Tell that to Webber,” Wendy muttered. “He’s playing with Abby in the lobby.”

Wickerbottom sighed, rubbing at her forehead. “Why have you come to me with your difficulties, Wendy?”

“I didn’t mean to. I just wanted something to do.”

“Then here. Take this.” She handed one of the books over to Wendy, then motioned to a cup of pens. “If you find anything interesting, highlight it. And be quiet.”

Wendy didn’t complain, cracking open the book on PTSD recovery and underlining things that looked important. After a few pages, when it was clear she was actually doing the work, Wickerbottom—looking mildly impressed—handed her a small set of Post-Its, where she marked the pages.

They continued in silence for an hour or two, before Wendy was pulled out of her reverie by the sound of the printer in the corner booting up. Wickerbottom pushed the chair back and made her way over, picking up the papers and taking the book from Wendy. “…thank you, dear,” she said, only half-grudging. “You’ve been a help.”

“You’re welcome,” said Wendy quietly.

Wickerbottom stared at her for a moment, then seemed to take pity. “If you’re not getting along with your siblings, why not go find…mmm, why not go find someone responsible who can play with you? Not Wix or Willow,” she said firmly. “Winona, for instance. Or Allen.”

“Alright.” Wendy capped her highlighter and pushed back, hands shoved in the pockets of her sweater as she headed through the door to the hallway.

Wickerbottom watched her go, and she didn’t move until the door swung shut behind Wendy, leaving her in the empty hallway.

Go find something to do. With someone responsible. Right.

She couldn’t hear her siblings playing in the lobby anymore, but that probably just meant that they were playing downstairs, or in the room or something. The bow in her pocket remained cold and dull; Abigail was still out and about.

Wendy went to go find something interesting to do.

She’d barely made it a few steps down the hall when she heard conversation from Wilson and Maxwell’s room. Not the hushed, secretive conversations that her uncles had, either; something a little more cheerful.

She weighed her options and pushed the door open.

Sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace were Wilson, Wix, and Winona, gathered around nothing in particular; Wilson had a book open in his lap, angled up so the others couldn’t see it, and a set of dice lay on the rug. Upon closer look, Wix and Winona each held a few sheets of paper and a mechanical pencil. Wendy stared for a moment. They stared right back.

“H-hi, Wendy,” said Wilson. It was the most confident she’d heard him since their confrontation in the kitchen. “Want to join us?”

“Is it appropriate for her?” Winona asked.

“As long as no one tries to fuck the monster it should be fine,” Wix muttered.

“W-Wix!” Wilson flinched slightly, then turned back to Wendy with a hopeful smile. “Want to play?”

“…what are you playing?” Wendy edged forward, shutting the door behind her.

“Call of Cthulhu,” said Wix. “Used to play it at MIT.”

“I p-played DnD in high sch-school,” said Wilson.

“These two cornered me in the hallway,” said Winona. “It looked like fun.”

“….alright, how do you play?”

Fifteen minutes later Wendy had some of the papers as well, and was laying on her stomach on the rug as Winona, Wix, and Wilson helped her fill it out. “So these two already got involved with the cult, so we want to get you an in—how does a professor sound?”

“Sure.” Wendy frowned slightly, writing EVELYN CARAHAN on the top of the page in her best penmanship. Winona gave an approving smile. “Can she be smart?”

“Well, there’s stats, see—“ Wilson, stutter almost entirely gone, launched into a detailed explanation of the stats involved in Call of Cthulhu, and Wendy nodded, trying to keep up. Wix looked supremely bored with the proceedings, but did lay out his sheets next to Wendy’s so she could see them. After a few minutes, she just nodded and put down the numbers Wilson told her to.

“Is this a math game?”

“Yeah,” said Wilson. “But it’s also….kind of like improv theater.”

“I’ve never done that.”

“You better start, you were so adamant about gettin’ your own show,” Winona muttered under her breath.

“Good practice then,” said Wendy. “Can we start now?”

-M-

When Abigail finally grew too tired and returned to the hairbow, Webber went looking for Wendy.

It took him fifteen minutes before he was standing outside the last place to look, Maxwell’s room. After a moment of listening in to hear if he would be interrupting anything important, he pushed the door open gently.

Wilson was asleep on the bed, tucked up under covers. Wendy was curled next to him, overtop the blankets, hairbow tucked in one pigtail and gently glowing with Abigail’s light. Over by the fireplace, Winona and Wix each took up one of the large armchairs, the former snoring gently and the latter with his prosthetic arm removed and set next to the chair.

Webber smiled and shut the door, then went to go tell Maxwell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IXQ DQG JDPHV DUH JRRG GLVWUDFWLRQV  
> EXW VPDOO WKLQJV FDQ KDYH FKDLQ UHDFWLRQV


End file.
